Fire Down Below
by Tiger5
Summary: 1938. After Cape Susette's invasion of the Pandalas, Usland is a bit paranoid of a future attack.
1. Prologue

Prologue  
  
The private plane Complex Fires flew alone over the Meditan Coast. It's sleek hull gleamed under the moonlight as it's engines propelled the plane through the night sky.  
  
Inside, Anya Sinclair waited patiently in her seat. Her long tresses of red hair hung askew from her head. A vixen at heart and body, she was something to be coveted by almost all the men she knew and didn't. The flight to Medtitas was a long and hazardous journey, one that would ended in a fiery death if she wasn't careful. The local government promised safe passage and even that didn't cure her worries much. With the threat of civil war looming inside the local geography, she still worried over her plane being chased, boarded and herself taken as a hostage. And a valuable one as well. Her husband, Demitri, was in charge of Constance Air Manufacturing, one of the major authorities in plane distribution.  
  
The stewardess walked by. "Would you like something to calm you down, Mrs. Sinclair?"  
  
Anya looked up from the window to see her faithful and assistance, Winter. Winter's ermine fur almost shone like a mirror, her Husky face was ever so filled with servitude and order. She smiled at her companion and shook her head. Winter nodded and shuffled off, leaving almost no trace of her ever being there. She took a moment to look around. The plane was luxurious, too much for Demitri's standards: A well-stocked wet bar stood idly by in a corner. The main cabin was bordered by seats and plush cushions. A small command center stood in the center of the cabin; Demitri used it often when he traveled to continue on with business. It hooked all his communications and information on world markets together at his fingertips. Sometimes, Anya mused on how much stress he'd gained going on vacation then going back to work because he couldn't be in the office during some crisis or another. One time, she severed the main power cord to his console and Demitri spent the whole vacation fidgeting like some child. But at least his blood pressure went down several points.  
  
"Radar, contact." The PA system announced. "Unknown object on intercept course. Closing fast."  
  
Anya's nerves jumped several notches. Intercept course. Someone wanted to get to get to them! She leaped from her seat and ran up to the cockpit, her heels almost hovering over the thick carpeted floor. The plane veered to the right, causing the bottles on the wet bar to cascade down on the carpet. Several wine bottles shattered, staining it with blood-red colors.  
  
She entered to cockpit, seeing the pilot and co-pilot working as one. The Co-pilot was busy getting an emergency message thorough, but he looked like he was failing. The pilot was busy at maneuvering the plane away from their pursuers. They both noticed her as she walked in.  
  
"They're jamming all the channels, ma'am." The pilot reported with a business-like attachment. He didn't even look at her as he spoke, concentrating on the task at hand.  
  
"They gave us a message to surrender and prepare to be boarded." He snorted softly and Anya immediately took the gesture as a challenge to them.  
  
She had full confidence in these people; both hand-picked by Demitri himself. Both were excellent fighter pilots and soldiers during the Phobus Wars, where he had also fought in. He picked the best, the brightest, and the most intuitive in times of crisis. Anya agreed.  
  
"How close are they?" Anya asked briskly. The plane was meant for travel and luxury, not for anything fancy like a fighter or a interceptor. But Demitri added a few tricks of his own to the Complex Fires. Most of which have never been tested until now.  
  
"They'll be within firing range within-" The Co-Pilot started. Then gunfire roared at them. The plane rocked under the impact of bullets and the Pilot fought for control. The radio cackled again, repeated the Aggressor's last order to surrender.  
  
The Pilot responded with a obscene remark, which was answered by more gunfire. The plane rocked again. Controls and lights started to blink red.  
  
"What about defenses?" Anya asked them. "Have they been tested?"  
  
"Not like this." The Pilot replied. He scanned the controls. "We're losing pressure in the number 3 engine; losing speed. Larson?"  
  
The Co-Pilot responded. "No, Mel. They're still jamming us! I can't break through, and I can bet that they're using military-grade jammers; no one coming for us except them." He spoke of them with disdain.  
  
Anya considered her options. "We can't call for help. We can't outrun them until that engine problems been fixed. And no one knows about our flight plan except for Constance Air. Could they've just came upon us, or was it an ambush?"  
  
Larson looked at her with even eyes. "Even the Air Pirates don't have access to a military-grade ECJs. And they won't either. We keep that stuff inventoried better then our payrolls. I can guess right now that they got a Electric Communication Jammer that'll keep anyone within a ten mile radius from even knowing about us. I'm thinking it's an ambush, pure and simple."  
  
She looked at Mel, the pilot. "Any other details, Mel?"  
  
Mel didn't bother to look at her, and that was just fine. He had more pressing matter at hand. "Our flight plan was filed when we came in; it wasn't when we came out. At least not with the local authorities. We filed our return flight plan at Constance Air. I think someone snitched." He almost spat that last sentence out like it was a vile- tasting substance. Clearly, the military mentality involving traitors was not out of both of them. But doing that would've deaden their skills as effective pilots and that was what Anya needed at the moment.  
  
"Then we fight." Anya concluded. "Charge the explosive bolts and prepare to fire on my mark. Larson, get a SOS buoy ready to drop." She spoke with an air of authority and reason, and they complied like good soldiers. They didn't question, nor gripe, nor complain. They did as they were told. because personal feelings were unimportant in matters like these; survival was everything.  
  
Anya left the cockpit and returned to the main cabin. Winter was already ripping a section of the carpeting apart with her once-hidden knife. Winter looked up at Anya.  
  
"Just like old times," She managed to grin.  
  
"For you perhaps," Anya returned the grin. "But lets keep it simple: Escape is the priority. Nothing else." And with that, Anya reached up above her and pulled a panel off the ceiling above, revealing a hidden hatch that led to the hidden gun turrets.  
  
Winter finished prying off the carpet and pulled out a section of the floor underneath to reveal a similar hatch. They both opened them, and climbed inside. Anya climbed up into the top turret, using her athletic arms while Winter climbed down to the bottom turret.  
  
The turrets were something that Demitri designed a while ago for some of the planes sold to diplomats and ambassadors traveling into hostile territory. They were hidden behind a panel of fuselage that held explosive bolts. Once detonated, the bolts exploded the panels away and the turrets pop through, ready to battle!  
  
Anya got inside the cramped turret. It was never meant for space nor for large people; nothing more then a seat and harness for the gunner, a radio, a few emergency systems and the weapons. No frills, which Anya didn't have time for right now. She slipped in and quickly strapped on the harness that held her to the seat. The guns, 50. quads, awaited in there "resting" positions. She slipped a headset onto her head with one hand while chambering the rounds into each of the four guns with her other.  
  
"Status, status?" She asked into her mike. "Stations, report."  
  
"Standing by," Larson responded promptly.  
  
"Locked and loaded, Mrs. Anya." Winter's quiet voice responded.  
  
"Fire." Anya shouted, a little too loud then necessary.  
  
The bolts fired and the hidden panels blew off. Anya felt a shift in gravity as the ball turret jolted forward into the locking position. She gripped the firing handles with both hands as she took a quick scan of her surroundings.  
  
Six interceptors flew around, trying to entrap them and possibly force them down. Latest models by the design, no pirates or marauders from what Anya could tell. There wings bristled with rocket pods and machine gun emplacements. Mostly custom jobs and bad ones at that. Anya fixed her sights on the nearest one as it flew by her and fired off a volley.  
  
"Winter, fire at will!" She ordered. "Mel, go into evasive. Larson, forget about the radio and fix that engine."  
  
The first volley tore into the rear of the interceptor, ripping it to shreds. It seemed to shudder in the air for a brief moment before smoke erupted from it's side. The pilot barely had time to eject before the plane exploded. It's fuel and ammunitions lit the night sky like a miniature sun. Anya took a moment to look at the ejected pilot, who just released his 'chute. He was wearing a paramilitary outfit. But the details ended after that.  
  
The interceptors veered off, trying to regroup and reorganize. Anya's shot reduced their numbers by one and now they grew cautious of the turrets. Overconfident at first, they must now realize that it cost them one of their planes.  
  
"Mel, keep into evasive. If they find one of our blind spots, we've had it!" She was hyperventilating; she was dimly aware of that. Her senses were wired, sweat beaded into her brow. Another interceptor fell in her sights and she fired another volley off in response.  
  
The interceptor dodged it, performing a spiral-roll. It circled around and fired it's weapons into the Complex Fires. She heard and felt the metal skin ripping apart from the bullet's barrage. Another interceptor fell into view and tried to fire at the turret she manned. Anya shielded her eyes as the bullets slammed into the turret, spreading spider-webs into the glass. Anya barely had time to scream when the entire ship rocked to it's side.  
  
Explosion! Her mind roared. Something exploded!  
  
"Larson," She panicked. "What happened?"  
  
She was answered by filtered static. Larson's was barely heard thought the bee's noises from her earpiece. For a moment, she deduced in her mind that her pursuers just hit their intercom systems. She immediately hit the button marked: "Emergency Comms". She shouted again for status.  
  
"Larson? Larson?" This was not going well.  
  
"Mel here," Mel's voice sounded like an angel's voice for that moment. "They hit the cockpit; Larson's been hit badly. The radio exploded near him; he's got shrapnel in his chest. They took out two more engines."  
  
Anya moaned audibly. Two engines down, one working, and the last one barely working. This was not supposed to happen! Her mind fairly screamed. She was to go home to her husband and they'd swap stories about what they did for the week they weren't together. Demitri would try to think up another set of ideas for the R&D boys to play with; she'd go out to another hospital for volunteer work with injured orphans and they'd be fine.  
  
This...wasn't...supposed...to...happen.  
  
A scream pierced her thoughts. Winter's cries of pain ended with gunfire. Anya heard in sheer horror as her ears picked up the sounds of bullets tearing into Winter's turret. Her senses were now up full throttle. She could feel her pulse through her fingertips, hear her heartbeats through her ears. She smelled the leather harness holding her down and smell of gun-oil from the quads. She even smelled a faint whiff of her talcum powder and the evergreen smell of her favorite shampoo.  
  
The last image Anya Sinclair saw that horrid night was a wounded interceptor bearing down on her on a collision course. 


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Analysis in the Dark  
  
Six months later...  
  
Baloo picked at his bow-tie for the upteenth time, fidgeting as usual at what he called "the noose". Kit could only smirk at Baloo's feeble attempts to convince Rebecca to change her mind in the matter of the ties. Personally, Kit felt all right about it. Even though he was navigating the Sea Duck in his tuxedo and trying to avoid scuffing his dress shoes while walking about in the cargo hold, he still performed his duties without complaining nor griping. He looked up from his map, staring at the white clouds as they passed by him. He wanted to go cloudsurfing, no question about that. But Rebecca's orders were precise about that activity until after their meeting with the airplane mongul, Demitri Sinclair.  
  
Demitri Sinclair, a man of mystery and legends from all sorts of Aviation Medias. The one who's simple modification of a cargo ship saved the lives of hundreds of evacuating soldiers during the Phobus Wars. Who's innovations continue to save pilot's lives and made their jobs more easier. And they're going to meet him for the first time.  
  
He felt a small tug on his shirt sleeve, awakening him from his thoughts. Molly looked at him from her pink dress and matching pigtail ribbons. "Are we there yet, Kit?" She asked politely.  
  
"Not yet, kiddo." He grinned at her. "Another hour, I promise." He turned his head to look in the back. "Where's Wildcat?" He wondered aloud.  
  
"He trying to tie his own tie all by himself." Molly answered, as if the question was directed at her. "He's been trying it for a week." She said this with and air of astonishment, like the thought was unbelievable to her. Kit understood perfectly. It took Baloo a month to get Wildcat to remember how to tie his shoelaces...without tying his own hand together in the process!  
  
"Molly, honey." Rebecca walked into the cockpit...no, glided into the cockpit would be more appropriate. Her blue dress was a shimmering business gown with a slightly less-blue shoulder sash. Her hair was up, a rarity for as long as Kit remembered, looking more sculpted then permed at some beauty shop. She hunkered down to scoop Molly away, admonishing her politely about not leaving them to their duties.  
  
Baloo smiled slightly, still fidgeting with his own tie. Whether he was smiling from "Becker's" new dress or from Wildcat trying to tie his necktie, it was hard to say exactly.  
  
"I don't get it, Kit." Baloo said. "Out of all those bigwig shipping business like Sher Khan and UPC, what does Demitri Sinclair want from people like us?"  
  
"Mainly because Khan and the United Parcel Consortium aren't reliable enough for him." Rebecca replied cuttingly from the back. "Khan has been known to throw a few lies around, at least around us. Who knows what he might've done to Mr. Sinclair."  
  
"Mrs. Cunningham's right, Baloo." Kit thought the question himself several times. The past has taught him to look deeper into a scam or a con. And the phrase "Too Good To Be True" was always that: just another con at their expense. Khan has been known to use people for his own agendas; Higher for Hire was but a few he might've used and abused in the past. And this vague talk of a "Business Proposition" direct from Mr. Sinclair himself, seemed to only justify his suspicions. "Mr. Sinclair has an entire list of resources he could've used besides us-"  
  
"Hey," Rebecca's voice sounded pained, as if she was insulted at such a notion.  
  
Kit continued on. "And he basically corners the market in new aircraft designs and military-grade aircraft. He could've had a country of his own choice to do this 'proposition'."  
  
Molly started: "Mommy, what's prop-incision?"  
  
Rebecca laughed softly and started to explain. Baloo turned his neck to look in the back. The cargo space of the Sea Duck was totally transformed. All the trash was out, the beds were made and even the hold was sanitized and smelling too much like pine or evergreens disinfectant. Baloo hated it; most of his secret cache was found during the cleaning by Becky and her question on how Baloo's diet plans were in ruins were now answered.  
  
"I guess we'll find out sooner or later, Kit. " Baloo answered. "Because we're almost there." He pointed in front of him. "Look."  
  
Kit did, watching the clouds parting to reveal a small island looming into view. It was smaller then the others Kit had seen in the past. But it was mostly the same: Deserted beaches, tall palm trees, and emerald shorelines. It was at least 4 miles from it's widest points from one coast to another. It was small, smaller then even the island that held Louie's. The only indication that the island was manned was the long, brown strip of a dirt runway and a few maintanence shacks.  
  
"Approaching aircraft," The radio crackled. "You are unauthorized into this airspace. Identify yourself."  
  
Baloo winked at Kit; dealing with traffic controllers was something he was well noted for. This guy seemed like nothing to worry about. He grabbed the receiver and hit the mike.  
  
"Yo, fellas." He started. "We got a personal invitation from your boss there. So how about-"  
  
His conversation was cut sort by a small barrage of incoming bullets from across his starboard side. Baloo yelped in surprise as he yanked the control yolk to a hard port. Rebecca yelled in surprise and in anger, demanding what Baloo'd done now. Molly screamed in delight, enjoying again one of Baloo's aerobatics with the Sea Duck. Somewhere in the back, Wildcat was trying to keep his balance while trying to tie his necktie right. And also trying to undo his left hand from the knot.  
  
Kit immediately looked down to see what was firing on them. The island looked deserted but now Kit could see some Anti-Aircraft batteries that were covered in underbrush. Camo-cloth. And very good camo job too, he thought. The military issues were special because they came in several layers: one had most of the underbrush to blend in perfectly with the surrounding environment, usually the more layers applied, the better well-hidden the target is. Sometimes, search parties were known for searching for a particular aircraft or cargo pod not realizing that they were standing on it the whole time! The other layers were usually for very peculiar circumstances: Some actually had tubes running through the layers with a nutrient systems so the cargo could stay hidden for months, even years because of the local seeds embedded inside the layer. Within months, the seeds will grow and add a new plant or fern to better hide the stuff. Kit knew this off- hand; Karnage had several such caches of parts around Pirate Island, sometimes the other couldn't find them but that wasn't saying much. Baloo had the civilian models and that was it. But then, they'd never considered smuggling.  
  
The AA guns fired again, releasing another volley of flak into the blue sky.  
  
Then guns stopped for a moment. Then Kit saw the gunnery crews proceeded with covering them again. By nature, he hated guns. Years of seeing them and what damage they could do to people brought about a slight anger inside him. The closest thing he ever used recently was the harpoon rifle he used to escape Karnage's Iron Vulture.  
  
The radio speaker sputtered with the traffic controller's voice.  
  
"You are cleared to land." He replied. "We are sorry for the guns. We rarely get visitors anymore. You have full access to the runway, proceed to Hanger 2 for your plane. And have a nice day." He closed the channel.  
  
Baloo, furious, almost ripped the radio receiver from the radio itself. "Have a nice day??!!" He roared. "You shot at me, while I had an invitation. You almost blew me out of the sky and you tell me, 'have a nice day'? I had an invitation!"  
  
"Yes, you did." The controller replied smartly. "Now imagine what would've happened if you didn't have an invitation." A slight pause. "Now, does your day seem better now?"  
  
The controller closed the channel and Baloo replaced the receiver with slightly numb fingers. Controllers were usually boring-sounding types, like they've done the same crossword puzzles for the hundredth time. But this controller was a true professional in terms of maintaining a professional business posture.  
  
"Problem, Baloo?" Rebecca fairly sprinted to the cockpit. Her fingertips twitching, like they wanted to lodge themselves around Baloo's neck.  
  
"We have clearance, Mrs. Cunningham." Kit offered dryly.  
  
Rebecca looked a lot worse for wear at the moment but started to simmer down...a little. Her hair started to fall apart a bit. And she stared daggers at Baloo.  
  
"Baloo," She started to explain calmly..and failing. "We are about to meet one of the biggest names in aviation; A person who's word might make or break Higher for Hire. I want to make a standing impression and a good influence for him to remember."  
  
"Becky-" Baloo started.  
  
"I'm not finished," She nearly snarled. "So please, do not muck it up for my sake. Please." Finished what she had to say, she turned to the cargo hold to fix up her hair.  
  
Kit didn't offer his input until after he was sure Rebecca was gone. Leaning towards Baloo, he whispered over the engine noise: "I never seen Mrs. Cunningham bear her teeth like that before."  
  
"Yea," Baloo noticed it too. "Business that bad?"  
  
"I haven't noticed her say anything about it." Kit mused. "She would've mentioned it before if that was the case."  
  
"Yea," Baloo laughed. "In several different octaves and scales."  
  
Other then the incident with the AA batteries, the landing was uneventful. The dirt runway was hard enough so the Sea Duck's landing tires didn't sink into some mudflat. Clouds of dust bellowed around the propellers as Baloo maneuvered it to their designated parking hanger. They noticed it almost immediately after landing. But Kit as well as everyone else was more amazed at the scene around the runway:  
  
There were a round figure of ten buildings, all bordered the runway in some form, all no larger then two stories tall. But they were all hidden by the same camo- cloth that hid the gun batteries. Kit looked out his window and saw several of the AA batteries within plain view, but they were all hidden under camo-cloth, each suspended over them like the cargo nets Baloo used to put his stuff (Or junk, if you leaned towards Rebecca's views). He could see even at this distance the "rip-wires" that would rip the cloth down so the AA would fire. The complexes were well hidden. Kit had a hard time telling some buildings from a gaggle of rocks or tree trunks. Above the island, the runway would've been the only indication that it was ever inhabited! The sides of the buildings were colored and painted with the color tones of the surrounding jungle and most had vines and growth growing up the walls to provide what was known as camo-texture.  
  
Baloo was amazed at such a sight. And he turned to face Kit and gave a slight wink. Kit nodded and they both knew it: This was not a vacation resort. Everyone in the social elite had a small contingent of bodyguards and security experts. And they accompanied their employers everywhere they went, business, pleasure, what-not. Some were like Sinclair: owning their own private islands. Khan himself owned several, including his famous Utopia Planitchia Isle, the research fortress where Khan Industries designed and built the Sub-Electron Amplifier, when was later stolen by Karnage.  
  
But no one, even Khan would own a vacation island with a defense force this size.  
  
Kit pointed to his left, seeing a formation of cones that pointed to their designated "parking space". Then they saw the hanger: It was large enough to hold at least twenty Sea Ducks and still have room to spare! The northern wall held a massive machine parts cache, enough to fit any damage to any plane. And a machine shop to fabricate the necessary parts if one couldn't be found. Massive fuel tanks were stacked in one corner, separated by the rest of the hanger by fireproof doors. They were opened right now, and Kit could see work crews starting on some safety checks.  
  
There was a workshop and a repair center on the other side of the hanger, but Kit could see through the glass windows that it was empty. Everything was new, well maintained, and spelled expensive to bold capital letters. A few security guards strolled by, no marched by. Most of the security guards that Kit tangled with were usually fat, lazy and irritable if they didn't receive their 20 hour nap. These were professionals, wearing bandoleers of ammo to accompany their rifles. Insonc LV-42A models. Commando issue. Nasty.  
  
No wonder Mrs. Cunningham insisted on them behaving.  
  
Baloo glided the plane to it's designated parking space, going by the broad hand movements of the controller outside and in front of him. A most dangerous job indeed. Many tales were still spun about the controller who was killed while directing a plane on the ground, run over by some stupid pilot who never gotten his throttle properly checked.  
  
"We're here." Baloo announced. "All dressed up and ready to party." He winced at his bow-tie. "Some of us, at least."  
  
"Now remember, everyone." Rebecca reminded them for the uptenth time, almost every half-hour during their seven hour trip from Cape Susette to here. "We have to give Mr. Sinclair every courtesy and respect we could offer him; that includes you, Baloo."  
  
Baloo snorted.  
  
"And he prides honesty over everything. So always tell the truth." She paused for a moment. "And don't mention his wife to him."  
  
"Yea, I heard about that." Kit muttered. Mrs. Sinclair was declared missing since the summer. But no one knew where she was , or what had happened to her. A full search of the area marked on their flight plan turned up nothing. A few shell casings were found on a beach but that could've been from anyone's plane. After that, Mr. Sinclair's business started to falter a bit. As far as anyone knew, this was the closest to contact from the outside world that he'd had in the last six months. It was a major blow to the people, especially pilots, who praised her volunteer work and her founding of retirement homes for old or infirm pilots. A whole armada of volunteer pilots took part in the search, only to find very few clues. Several still searched, even after the search ended, but it was all in vain.  
  
A whole lot of people still mourned for her, Kit included. There was something about her from her light green eyes to her long red hair. Sometimes, he'd look at her picture and look at that compassion in her eyes, and could feel a sense of longing of such. He'd often wondered (to himself and never to anyone else) what it'd like to have a mother like Anya Sinclair.  
  
Baloo turned off the engines, listening for a brief moment as they idled down to a whisper. Wildcat walked in the cockpit. Wildcat was no longer wearing his oil-stained coveralls but a tuxedo like the others. The only difference was that his right hand was now tied with his bow-tie! Wildcat cocked his head for a moment, hearing the ticking of the cooling engines.  
  
"Baloo," Wildcat said. "Our engines need another oil bath. Their getting dirty from the dust. Dust is like dirt, you know."  
  
Baloo nodded absently as he climbed out of his seat, not noticing Wildcat's problem with his hand. Come to think of it, Baloo wasn't really sure Wildcat knew himself!  
  
"Wildcat, come here for a second, please." Kit asked. He folded his maps and his instruments and placed them in the compartments under his seat. When he was done and sure that nothing was going to slide out if they had to leave quickly, he started to unknot Wildcat's tie-and hand. He did this with an almost emotional detachment. Wildcat was almost the same with his shoes, but Molly helped him with that. He smiled briefly at the little girl's unending patience. He listened as Mrs. Cunningham kept reminding everyone about manners and protocol, mostly to Baloo. Kit nodded at every pause in her speech and finally finished with Wildcat's tie. Then he realized something.  
  
"No clip-on?" He asked Wildcat.  
  
Wildcat smiled, revealing his straight teeth. "Mrs. Cunningham said that lacked tastes. But cotton taste like any other cotton, right Kit?"  
  
"No, Wildcat." Kit laughed. "She meant that this is more for the 'upper- crust' type of people and we have to look like professionals. Like rich people."  
  
"Wow!" Wildcat tugged his tie with a hint of pride. It was strange to see him in a simple tux instead of his usual filthy coveralls and it was even stranger to find out that he smelled of soap and talcum powered then his usual musk of lubricants and gasoline. If Kit never met him before, he'd swore that Wildcat was one of the "elite" of the social clubs.  
  
"Do you think they have cheeseburgers?" Wildcat asked.  
  
That killed the image. But Kit still laughed on and started to tell him about those little greasy sandwiches they served on platters.  
  
The rest of the people were outside. Rebecca got her hair back up and straight. Molly kept smiling, slightly fidgeting over the frothy dress she had to wear. Baloo fidgeted more then Molly, sometimes mocking strangulation with his tie and getting a sharp look from Rebecca.  
  
The hanger staff looked like they were closing up for the day. It was rather late in the afternoon. Some of the overhead light went off and the staff left. The soldiers looked around for possible security problems for a few minutes, then left themselves. Leaving Baloo and his party alone in the hanger.  
  
"I kinda expected something more of a welcoming committee." Baloo replied in amusement.  
  
"I don't understand." Rebecca started to sound confused, and slightly anguished. "We followed his directions. We signed his contracts. We followed his route to the letter. I called to confirm the appointment four times. Four times!"  
  
"Mommy, are you all right?" Molly started to worry herself. That was when Kit intervened, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. Children were always suspected of not knowing about the world around them. But Molly could sense emotions of the people around her almost to the mark! And when they were sad, sometimes it affected her too.  
  
"We'll be all right, kiddo." Kit replied. "Maybe they're trying to surprise us or something." He smiled, hoping that she wouldn't see through such a distraction. Faintly, he heard a small scraping sound.  
  
"You sure?" Molly asked.  
  
"Sure, I am." Kit answered. "Right, Baloo?" He turned his head slightly towards his friend.  
  
"He's right, princess." Baloo smiled. Molly smiled in return at being called princess. That always improved her mood. His ear twitched. "What's that noise?"  
  
Wildcat heard it too. "Sounds like someone's fixing an engine." He offered.  
  
Rebecca straightened her dress for what seemed like the thousandth time. Kit wondered if she'd worry the dress to death if she kept straightening the wrinkles like that.  
  
"Wildcat," She asked. "How do you know that?"  
  
"I can hear the crescent wrench, it goes wrink-wrink-wrink, then spoool." His lips formed a O and pushed his arms outward for emphasis. "And he's using a plug remover. It goes, doink-doink-doink, then he twists it like zooooo."  
  
Molly laughed and Wildcat joined her. Kit and Baloo often wondered to themselves the fortune Wildcat would've made if he'd gone into radio.  
  
"Wildcat, how do you know it's a him?" Rebecca asked impudently. Female mechanics were now commonplace. Not to say that they outnumber the male mechanics, but they've made a name for themselves. One couldn't look at the family-run Laurista's Plane Repair and Day Care/Youth Mechanic School and not realize that. A single parent mother of six running a day care center, pre-school and repair business franchise. Rebecca often read Laurista's magazine articles in Aviation Weekly and Woman's Business Success.  
  
"I can see him over there." Wildcat pointed to the far side of the hanger.  
  
A single man was standing on a supporting catwalk, hovering over an exposed engine. His coveralls were drenched in engine grease and oil. His grayish, brown fur looked even worse with flecks of ground metal and rust sticking to it. Kit couldn't see the man's face because of the dark lighting. A pair of tool belts hung askew over his hips, giving off the appearance of a gunslinger in the old westerns Kit used to take Molly at the local cinaplex. He always made the courtesy of leaving before the gunfights, citing that they'd be late for dinner and ice cream.  
  
"Who is that guy?" Baloo wondered aloud.  
  
"Let's ask him." Rebecca replied impatiently.  
  
They did.  
  
The man was working one of the engines of an old Conway C-57A. A retired model but still robust and worthy of the Conway name. The hull was stripped of paint and most of the doors were gone. But Kit could see the interior. Most of the seats and instruments of the cockpit was removed, but he could see that some were replaced with updated part and equipment.  
  
"Looks like he's restoring it," Baloo replied. He noticed the cockpit too.  
  
Rebecca looked up at the man hanging above the engine. Most of his body was hung over the catwalk's railing but she saw a safety line attached to him. The guy was smart and knew enough about the safety regs.  
  
"Excuse me, sir." She called out to him.  
  
The man either didn't hear or chose to ignore her. He shuffled over his tool belts for another wrench. He picked at another section of the engine and pulled out a foreign object. It was larger then his forearm yet he held it like it had the weight of a toothpick. He dropped it with a bored expression. The object fell to the ground, less then a foot from Rebecca's feet. It left a dull thud, like it was nothing more then a sack of dirt instead of oily black metal. Black grease splattered over the front of her dress. She screamed at the sight. "There is grease on my beautiful dress!" She cried out.  
  
The man's head perked up. He focused on Rebecca.  
  
"Sorry, lady." The man apologized. "Didn't see you there. Should've wore a hard hat, I could've hurt your pretty little head." He leered at her with intense brown eyes.  
  
"You should've looked before you dropped it." She yelled at him. Baloo bit his lips to contain his laughter. Kit and Molly failed the attempt.  
  
"You folks new here?" It wasn't a question.  
  
"We have an appointment with Mr. Sinclair." Rebecca replied with a sense of pride, but Baloo could almost hear a tone of threatening intent in her words. He hoped that the boss lady wasn't getting too big for her britches about this situation.  
  
Whether intent she spoke in, wither threatening or not, the man didn't seemed impressed. Seemingly amused, more like it.  
  
"Why didn't you just call out," His hands were now over the railing, a wrench dangling over his pinkie. Baloo could make out a small smile on the man's face.  
  
"We did." Rebecca defended herself.  
  
The man looked at the people below him. His tongue traced around his cheeks as if in thought. But then, he jerked his head and spat out a large wad of chewing tobacco. Then without warning or a sign, he flipped himself over the railing, causing startled screams from Baloo, Kit and Rebecca. Mostly from Rebecca.  
  
The man fell with an almost graceful movement, so graceful it almost looked lazy. He fell head first then flipped himself until he was falling feet first. And just as he was about to hit the ground from a falling distance of 20 feet. The safety line went taught and lowered the man safely to the ground. The man's feet hit the floor without much fanfare, but he held the attached bungy cord that made his safety line like a professional. Like he'd done this before.  
  
Baloo started to shake a bit, like he was shaking away what had happened. Kit and Molly just stood there, amazed at such a stunt. It was something meant for the Saturday matinee and the nickelodeon that Kit sometimes went to on the extreme rare occasions when he played hooky. Wildcat's expression was almost that of the same amazed look as Molly's.  
  
Rebecca's was, understandably, less amazed.  
  
Her hands were clinched tightly, almost enough to hear the knuckles crackle and pop. The man looked at her squarely at her face as he unbuckled his safety harness and tool belts. He was clearly unimpressed and unafraid at whatever this woman would do to him. the look in his eyes showed that if not his face.  
  
"Come with me," He ordered them evenly. With that, he turned and walked away towards the hanger exit, his tool belts unbuckled and now draped over his shoulder together.  
  
The others just stood there, trying to make out this person. He was unsettling, unnerving to them. Anyone sane would never voluntarily fall over a catwalk, safety harness of no harness, that was something that was just not done. Even Wildcat would never have tried it.  
  
The man turned towards them, his one hand holding the exit door's handle, the other holding his tool belts. "You want to see Mr. Sinclair, them come with me. If not, feel free to spend the night here." There was small, amused crinkle in his eyes. "You might want to lock the plane up though; they let the attack dogs in here in less then an hour. And I have to lock this door from the outside." He opened the door and took a step inside the doorway. Waiting.  
  
He didn't have to wait much longer.  
  
As they left the hanger and into a brightly lit hallway that led to an elevator at the end, all that could be heard was the visiting adults exhaustion from their running towards the door, a boy who was huffing over carrying a small girl, the small cries of the girl that wanted to see the doggies, and the laughter of the crazed-looking mechanic.  
  
He tapped a control at the end of the hallway. A second later, the doors parted and a another mechanic looked at them. The others stepped in and the doors closed.  
  
"Where to, sir?" The figure asked, in a thickly accented voice.  
  
"The office section, Zatherias." The mechanic replied with an air of authority.  
  
The figure nodded and pressed the proper buttons. The visitors felt the elevator car move. The man straighten up his posture. In the light, everyone could see the figure that was once with them in the hanger: He was a head taller then Rebecca with long, lanky brown hair that fell in clumps around his shoulders. He wore the grease and oil almost like another layer of his skin. He was thin, almost too thin, like he ate rarely. But what amazed them was the slight intensity of his eyes under those bushy eyebrows. They were brown with slight flecks of gray, but sometimes turned to a full shade of gray depending on how the light hits them. They've soften now, the burning intensity now diminished. Kit repressed a slight shudder. Karnage had a slight variation of that intensity, but it was mostly due to rage or whatever passed for insanity, which was considered a moot point when referring to Karnage. A few people had that same look. Some were different and some were the same but over the years, Kit learned to separate them into two major groups: Insanity and rage.  
  
"Everything okay?" Zatherias asked.  
  
"Everything is fine." The man replied in a calming voice.  
  
"Zatherias knew but wanted to make sure. Zatherias is like that sometimes." Zatherias replied, giving off a wolfish smile. Zatherias had a stooped appearance between a hunchback and a jackal. His coveralls were as filthy as the man, but at least his face was clean. His hair was longer then anyone else in the elevator car, even Rebecca's. It was tied into a ponytail and hung over his shoulder, small braided bangs hung over his ears.  
  
"I like your braids." Molly complemented.  
  
"Zatherias thanks you," He replied, his smile widening. "Zatherias does braids himself. Hates it when he has to undo them. But bath is important, or so Zatherias is told."  
  
"I'm Molly." She recited her name with an air or pride.  
  
Zatherias stood up straight. Before he was only a few heads taller then Louie but now, fully erect, he stood almost as tall as Baloo. "I'm Zatherias, that's my name. Zatherias. Pleased that Zatherias has opportunity to met Molly."  
  
Molly giggled. It's funny and rare for a person to refer to themselves as a third person. But Molly didn't seem to mind. It was almost comical.  
  
The doors parted and the rest left the elevator car, Zatherias included. The man was leading the way, his stride precise and almost timed like watch movements. The hallway was lined with offices and more offices. Each office space had an almost utilitarian design to them all: Black typewriters stood on top of wood desks. A calendar and a few charts lined one side of the wall. Filing cabinets lined another wall to the ceilings. Every room was about the same. And all lacked a sense of being lived in, a sense of personal tastes, of color. It had all the taste of bland oatmeal.  
  
Baloo hated it. The look on his face showed it. Kit wasn't surprised.  
  
The last office at the end of the hallway had the name Demitri Sinclair on the door in gold lettering. The name was posed over the CAM logo: a curlycued C and M with an A positioned slightly downward and connecting them with the lines. The double- doors were solid oak in a reinforced frame. Kit noticed the steel alloy hinges were reinforced, almost making the doors into a makeshift wall if necessary.  
  
The man opened it and gestured the people to step inside. They did. And almost gasped in surprise:  
  
It was large. Larger then Khan's office in Cape Susette! It was roughly the size of a school gym with the roof towering two stories above them. The space was divided into separate areas, some of them actually had a second level to them. The far- left side had a fully stocked kitchen with an eatery and wet bar located above. The far- right held a large work center with a elaborate communication rig with at least ten teletype machines. Rebecca almost gasped at that. Teletype machines that were capable of monitoring the stock markets around the world in almost real-time. Each was almost as expensive as the Sea Duck and Sinclair owned ten in his office! She silently prayed that Baloo wouldn't mess this up. She could see the massive map hanging above on the wall, with colored push-pins showing off locations and such. She saw colored lines of the major, minor and "Unauthorized" shipping lanes. "Unauthorized" usually meant that it was either reserved for military use only or it was illegal: a possible no-fly zone, or a smuggler's route used to avoid the border patrols or circumvent the blockade runners. Baloo whistled in amazement. A select few such route he knew about, but the way this map was showing it Baloo knew nothing! He could bet a good Banana Burrito with extra salsa that even Karnie doesn't know about half these routes!  
  
The rest of the office was divided up. One corner had a library with shelves that reached to the ceiling. Another had what had to be a work table. She saw a lit drafting table with several blueprints on them. As well as several other blueprints hanging on his wall, some were framed with awards.  
  
Kit and Baloo were amazed. This was where he came up with his ideas, they both thought. This was were he came up with the innovations that saved our lives and saved the lives of countless pilots. They both felt like they were on sacred ground. It took a moment for Kit to notice that Baloo was actually straightening out his tie!  
  
The center of the room had a small "waiting area". With sectional seats and tables. It gave off a hotel lobby look. Several varieties of magazines laid on the mirrored surface of the end table. Kit could see several different aviation magazines from Aviation Weekly to The Pilot's Digest to the latest (And most coveted issue thus far) Jean's Commodities Trade Chart. Rebecca owned a subscription herself, but the Jean's was a quarterly magazine. The latest wouldn't be out for the public for another month or so.  
  
"Sit, please" The man insisted after a few minutes of them gawking at the sights. With Baloo and the rest dressed for a ball, the only things that actually clashed with the scenery was the filthy man and his assistant, Zatherias. They all sat down on the seating, feeling good to be off their feet at last. Baloo reached out, almost by reflex for the Digest while Kit picked the Weekly. Rebecca would've literally snatched the Jean's from the table if others weren't around, but no one would not feel amusement (or understanding) for her actions. Molly and Wildcat were talking their usually talk, mostly childish stuff until Zatherias joined in. He was still standing, but was now hunched over again. It was only the mysterious man's action that literally shocked everyone, excluding Zatherias, to death.  
  
He sat down with them. With the grease and oil staining almost every square inch of his coveralls, their was no doubt that it would leave a nasty stain on the fabric. He even leaned his head back against the head rest and starting to rub his hair in it. Every grease and oil stain was once on his back was now on the couch! And the person was now spreading himself around!  
  
The guy gave a small smile. He was clearly amused. Whatever creditability he had in terms of his sanity just went up in smoke in their eyes. One of the most powerful people in the aviation business, and his employee just stained up his couch in his personal office without regard or respect. And right in front of them!  
  
Rebecca felt like screaming.  
  
The guy replied, all smiles. "I'm sure that the boss wouldn't mind at all."  
  
"You think," Rebecca managed to find her voice, but it was wavery. "You think? How can you be sure?" She was now starting to get frantic, making the guy giggling and close to breaking in hysterical laughter. "How can you be sure? How can you really be sure? He could kill my business! My future! My gosh, he could sue me and I'll lose everything."  
  
The guy was now laughing, holding his sides together with his arms. His laugh was slightly musical, but the hysteria in his voice almost rivaled the hysterics in Rebecca's voice. Then the man removed his hat with the ragged long-haired wig attached. Then removed the bushy eyebrows from his face.  
  
Now they knew why the boss wouldn't mind.  
  
He was the boss!  
  
He lent out a welcomed hand, his smile was still genuine and still amused by the shocked silence of Baloo and the other.  
  
"Mr. Demitri Sinclair, founder and CEO of Constance Air Manufacturing Corporation." The man in the coveralls replied in a caviler tone. "And I'm glad to 'meet' you, Mrs. Cunningham." 


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Contrasts Between The Shadows And The Darkness  
  
A few hours had passed slowly for most of them. A big dinner was set on the dining table, fine for Baloo, who was starved nearly to death. But Rebecca felt a hint of disappointment over the variety and selection of food set down:  
  
Of all the vast fortune at Mr. Sinclair's disposal, his tastes in food were so....common. There was a giant platter filed with french fries. Several other platters were filled with cheeseburgers, onion rings, and a gray pile that could only be tuna salad. A cooler filed with glass bottles of cola stood around a tub of ice. Wildcat's and Baloo's reaction was something of total ecstasy but there was something in Rebecca's face that resembled disappointment. Kit's face and expression was blank, but Molly could sense that Kit was thinking intently. Everyone wanted to start eating but she quieted their protests, intending to wait for the now-revealed Demitri Sinclair to finish cleaning up and joined them. They waited impatiently, Baloo's fingers kept wandering towards the nearest platter, stalled only by his boss's cutting remarks...and a few attempted stabs on the hand with her fork! Molly was fidgeting slightly but didn't whine too much.  
  
A few minutes later, Demitri returned to join them. Clean and washed, he wore a pair of faded blue jeans and a gray short-sleeved button shirt. His slightly long hair was combed but still had a slightly windblown look. Zatherias walked just behind him, looking even cleaner in neatly starched coveralls. They both took chairs and sat down and everyone started to pile their plates with food. Baloo took a more then generous amount of burgers and fries of their piles. Kit and Molly soon joined in. Molly poked Kit in the ribs, and whispered to his direction, asking him to smile. Kit did.  
  
Wildcat and Zatherias literally dove their hands into the greasy fries, never minding that they were using their sleeves as makeshift napkins. Rebecca tried to repress a moan as she saw Wildcat using his tuxedo sleeves to wipe the grease from his hands.  
  
The ate in silence for a few minutes; the silence was often broken by Baloo's loud commentary about the quality of the food. Then Demitri spoke:  
  
"I guess you all are wondering about why I asked you all here?" He ate his food casually, almost without refinement. Like he was just some blue-collar worker eating in some roadside diner instead of one of the wealthiest men eating on his own island!  
  
"The thought had crossed our minds a number of times," Rebecca replied politely. Kit didn't have to listen intently to hear that the answer was directed towards him. He voiced his concerns about this arrangement weeks before they left. Everything from the signing of the non-disclosure agreements, which even Molly had to sign! To the security background checks. To even the generous amount of money just to come here. The amount was roughly what they'd make in a month of deliveries. Just to come here. Kit's only question was "Why?" or more directly, "Why them?".  
  
"I've done some research on most of your backgrounds," Demitri replied. "You both have an extensive history of getting out of tight situations, escaping once- noted 'inescapable' prisons and complexes, and some of you have skills that I wouldn't find available anywhere else." His hand leaned towards each person as her replied. "Mr. Baloo is something of a legend in Louies, if not his mind. His tactics are considered dangerous and suicidal by various pilot instructors, despite the high success they entails.  
  
"Wildcat's modifications are well noted. I remember his article about using parts of a kitchen stove to repair an engine in Aviation Weekly. It's a good thing proofreading is considered a science now.  
  
"Rebecca Cunningham has built a successful business in a male-dominated business society, a task not easily done. And a seemingly successful mother at that." He smiled at her a bit, making her swell with pride.  
  
"Mr. Cloudkicker has skills that aren't well known to most, but are to be well respected. His volunteer work in the Cape Susette National Cartography is highly praised."  
  
"What about me?" Molly asked.  
  
Demitri almost laughed. "Who can ever forget the child who caused a whole daycare center to be under quarantine over measles." Molly laughed at that. Rebecca smiled in spite of herself. That moment has made it's way into Day care history, and most likely never to be topped!  
  
"I know that others have skill that well exceed yours. But as for now, I cannot rely on them, not for what I am asking. Yes, I do have what are known as 'Mad Hatters' but even they are becoming....unreliable." Demitri took another bit from his burger.  
  
Kit mused silently through all this. "Mad Hatters" were the black ops of any corporation; former soldiers and trained mercenaries that deal in corporate security, industrial espionage, and sometimes illegal activities. The downfall of the Darven Petro Group for their dealings in blackmail and murder of rival execs were a well known example of such a group.  
  
"I'm sure that you've all heard about my recent.....loss." Demitri continued, his voice straining a bit. He looked deeper into his burger. "The search parties have found inconclusive evidence around where they think Anya was last reported at. But others things have just came up."  
  
"I'm sure we can all accommodate you the best we can, Mr. Sinclair." Rebecca replied diplomatically.  
  
Demitri looked up. "I'm sure. But you might want to see the evidence before you make that decision." He turned his head to Zatherias and nodded to him. Zatherias, knowingly, reached from under his side of the table a flipped a concealed switch.  
  
The lights dimmed slowly, like in the cinaplexes Kit and Molly went to during his baby-sitting jobs. A small slab of white lowered to their line of sight. Baloo smiled as bit as he realized that it was a projection screen. A map showed itself on the white slab. Baloo recognized it almost instantly.  
  
The Typhon Sector.  
  
It was inside a fire-fire zone, a result of a recent civil war going on in the last three months. Almost every attempt to bring relief supplies and humanitarian aid was twarted..often with deadly outcomes. He could see the four major islands, spread out in a irregular triangle, no closer then 170 miles apart, but no more then 78 miles together. The interior was an entire archipelago of 217 islands, most still unexplored. Cape Susette once had over several dozen colonies and settlements in those islands, mostly geological survey and science research. But some had mining complexes, drilling inside the islands for petroleum and vital ores.  
  
Some had colonies that were for people who wanted to avoid the "City Life". Some were missionaries, some were colonists who hoped for a better life and future for their families, and some were scientists who wanted to find herbs and plants to combat diseases. Ever since the Settlements tried to declare independence from Cape Susette, the political stormfires have literally torn apart the people, who shared different views on this issue. And with the new acts of terrorism involving the Settlements, the no-fly zone was in force.  
  
"Do you know what this is?" Demitri asked.  
  
Rebecca paused for a moment, trying to find a polite way to reply that they weren't going to fly into a declared war zone. The Sea Duck wasn't much in her opinion; it was meant to haul cargo, not meant as a fighter. But then, she shared the same viewpoints about Baloo.  
  
The risk was far more dangerous then the advantages. The blockades that were kept made it even harder. Usland Military has kept a sizable portion of it's fleet into position around the islands. And the orders to "shoot on sight" any plane that tries to bypass the blockade..well, she wasn't going to risk it.  
  
"Mr. Sinclair....I know we seem to be adequate for whatever you might be asking but-"  
  
"But it's too dangerous." Demitri finished for her. She nodded.  
  
Demitri looked at her, studying her. She had fire, he didn't doubt that. Few people could stare at him that close and not visibly flinch. But he knew that if he laid everything on the table, it would be counterproductive for what he was asking for. So he gave out a sketch:  
  
"Six months ago, my beloved wife Anya, traveled at great personal risk to a major shipyard facility. We were under the suspicion that a conspiracy involving some of my major board members might be producing something not authorized by myself and the board of directors. We also concluded that several of our major bank accounts have been re-routed to other areas. We don't know where or to what. All that we do know is that some of the funding have been tied into another business venture entitled 'The Jauntas Corporation.' And it's gotten us worried."  
  
"Why not consult your internal security experts on it?" Kit asked.  
  
"Good question, and a valid one, Mr. Cloudkicker: My security has been compromised, severely. The flight plan that was issued to Anya was given to the highest ranking people inside internal security. It was never issued to anyone else."  
  
"What's this Jauntas Corporation?" Rebecca asked, her interests piqued.  
  
"It's a firm that's been dealing with biological sciences. Fungi, bacteria, et al. And it also deals with some military contracts, a lot of them classified. But what is interesting is this.."  
  
The screen switched from the map to a list of directories. Rebecca recognized it as a page copied from the International Business Directory. The copied page was blurry but she could tell that it was listing the major and minor corporations starting with the letter J. Jauntas was not listed.  
  
"Jauntas was supposedly formed just over a year-and-a-half ago." Demitri continued. "But this directory was printed just last month."  
  
"Mis-print?" Baloo offered.  
  
"No," Rebecca answered before Demitri could. "The Directory is notorious for getting their facts straight. Almost sadistic, is more accurate. They fired an entire editorial staff over improper grammar three months ago. "  
  
"Just over a month ago, a week before I first contacted you, I received a message from one of the Settlements inside the Typhon Sector. It was using a Extreme High Frequency radio that literally bypassed the local jammers just by sheer power alone. It was attuned to a precise radio frequency that was pre-determined just before Anya left. Only her and myself know this frequency. I think you should hear this."  
  
Zatherias nodded and politely escorted Molly away. Wildcat joined them and carried away his and Molly's dinner plates away. Kit and Rebecca didn't mind too much. Wildcat wasn't much in terms of understanding, but he could and might protect Molly with his life if necessary. When they were gone, Demitri played the message.  
  
A static sound filled the darkened room and instantly, the entire group could hear a female voice in the overheard speakers. One that was familiar to every pilot within the next 700 miles and beyond.  
  
Anya Sinclair.  
  
"They're coming through." More static and something that sounded like gunfire in the background "Demitri, can you hear me?" Her voice was not mistaken. A siren voice now filled with determination and true grit. Her voice was broken by sounds of radio static and gunfire, a few voices shouted in the background. Kit could hear bangs that only could've come from explosions.  
  
"Boast the gain, we need more power." The signal cleared but only so much. "Demitri, if you can hear me, listen up: Something is very wrong here. The blockades are starting to invade most of the islands. We don't know why. The Settlements are in the process of being bombarded. Civilian colonies, convoys, all have been under attack. Most of the main fleet are taking positions around Isle Nublar, the shipyards. They got to the shipyards. We don't know why exactly. We are-"  
  
A loud whoop sparked more static from the message. Machine gun fire was getting louder in the background over the shouts and screams of unknown people.  
  
"Shut up!" She roared to someone. "I'm on the phone here!" She turned her attention to the message. "The shipyards have increased productivity by over 300%, building something. I'm not sure but I think it's a carrier fleet of sorts. They're using the prototype engine as a template. Someone-"  
  
The static got louder, the gunfire increasing.  
  
"Their trying to hit the array," Anya shouted to someone. "We have to move out, Demitri. Security on your end has been compromised; badly. Get down here as soon as you can; and trust no one among your staff. No one. Anya Sinclair out."  
  
The message ended almost abruptly. For a moment, the buzzing static filled the dark room, the only light was from the projector. For a while, Kit could see a silent rage developing in Demitri's face, his eyes ablaze. Then just sadness. Kit remembered that look all to well; his face once had that look. That murderous rage that would want to hurt those that did harm to him. The look that would say, "I'm taking them all to hell, at whatever the cost, at whatever the risk."  
  
For a moment, Kit shuddered.  
  
Rebecca digested the story as much as she could. The blockade actually attacking the Settlements, a shipyards facility of some sorts. And the news that Anya Sinclair was still alive but probably aiding the Settlements. It was too much at such a short period. The Settlements were good people, she'd met several. Proudly independent, fiercely loyal, and never afraid of hard work. A majority of them served more then their fair share in the Phoebus Wars, fighting until they could not physically fight no more!  
  
And now the possibilities were revolving around her mind like a roulette wheel: the possibility that war with such fine allies were just one of them.  
  
"What prototype engine?" Kit asked.  
  
Demitri switched slides, showing a blueprint of a intricate engine design. A top half showed what looked like a engineering structure, Kit recognized it from his science classes. This one looked very familiar. That part he knew, the other parts he failed.  
  
"Two years ago," Demitri explained. "We were working on an alternate way to fly around. We've also been trying to find a better way to land aircraft, thinking of hostile situations where long-or even short-runways are not available.  
  
"Our goal was to use current and experimental technology and equipment to create a cheap and easy-to-use way for an engine to accomplish all theses objectives. Meaning that the craft will be highly maneuverable, fast, and be able to land in areas no other aircraft was able to land."  
  
"And what is it?" Kit pressed.  
  
Demitri smiled his cold smile. His reached over the projector and turned it off. Rebecca let out a startled screech. Kit pressed his hands against his ears to block her piercing tone. Baloo took a moment to slip a few more cheeseburgers into his pockets The room was bathed in total darkness until he flipped back on the overhead lights.  
  
"I'll tell you tomorrow; it's getting late." He finished. "I took the liberty of providing sleeping quarters for you all. Get some rest and we shall talk tomorrow." And with that, he left the room.  
  
A group of stewards entered and silently escorting them away.  
  
"He's hiding something," Kit concluded.  
  
He sat on the blankets of his bed, a king-sized one at that. The blankets were mostly cotton but very thick with wool filling. The room was well furnished: a oak desk stood at one wall in front of a set of tinted windows. Doors to a lavish bathroom were also oak but with gold trimmings. A bookcase separated Baloo's and Kit's beds. The selection was decent, but mostly old literature. Kit took a thick volume of poems and flipped through it impatiently, hoping to ease his mind from what ever that was bothering him.  
  
Baloo was looking like he was enjoying all this, not looking worried one bit. The small refrigerator that was inside the endtables eased his thought better then Kit's poems. The endtables were lined by their beds. Baloo almost went directly to the food.  
  
He stared at one section of the wall, which was nothing more then a huge mirror. It took up almost the entire wall! A perfect reflection of the room showed in it's perfect surface. And when Baloo looked up, he could see that the entire ceiling was mirrored as well. He thought briefly about Becky's room having the same mirrors in their rooms. And almost smiled at what her reaction might be.  
  
"You're thinking too much into this, l'ttle britches." Baloo was chomping on a salami sandwich, mustard and Mayo lined his lips. "Here we are, about to rescue the most popular and beloved persona in piloting history, going deep into hostile territory.." And suddenly, his tone dropped in realization to what he just said. "And into a potential war zone, where we could be shot down, taken prisoner, or..." He gulped down at that last potential outcome. Suddenly, the sandwich in his hand lacked flavor as well as appeal.  
  
"What about Anya?" Kit asked, mostly to himself.  
  
Baloo's face softened, his brief shock turned into one of small sadness. A look Kit rarely saw. He put his large arm around him. "She'll be all right," Baloo confided. "She's tough, I know that."  
  
"But I still think he's hiding something from us," Kit pressed further his point. "Something he wants hidden from us for now."  
  
"You don't trust him?" Baloo asked. It wasn't quite a question.  
  
"I don't know." Kit finally replied. It was almost a lie. Kit had nothing against Demitri Sinclair personally. His designs have saved countless pilot lives in the last several years alone. And yet, their was something unsettling about him as well. Something that made him seem dull, distant. But for a few moments he though he saw something else...something he couldn't exactly place somewhere but just as unsettling. All this time, knowing that Anya, his wife, was still alive. And now deciding to act out. Why now?  
  
Better yet, why them?  
  
And he looked at Baloo and noticed that he was thinking the same questions too.  
  
Someone knocked on their door, Kit jumped slightly. Baloo's sandwich fell to the carpet. Kit's nerves were a bit jingled lately, but only so much. Rebecca and Molly walked in, dressed in their sleepware. Rebecca wore a cotton nightgown with a lace trim. Her hair was nicely brushed, like it was glad to be away from all that styling and curling irons. Molly instantly ran towards Kit and nearly tackled him with her weight. Kit laughed loudly.  
  
Baloo walked towards Rebecca, seeing her face slightly creased in concern.  
  
"Don't tell me your worried about this too?" Baloo replied.  
  
"Kit must've the same concerns," Rebecca admitted. "It's too much to take at once, Baloo. Anya Sinclair, alive after all this time. This Settlement problem. And her aiding them...I can't bear to think of it on my own."  
  
"The Settlers are good people," Baloo wanted to take her hand to comfort her but didn't. That goes to show her that he didn't do things completely on impulse. "I flew with a bunch of them; good people, hard working. And they never try to siphon your fuel tanks when you turn your head....unless you do it to them first."  
  
Rebecca laughed at this small joke. Baloo liked her laugh; it was much preferable then her yelling.  
  
"How's your room look?" Baloo asked. He noticed her looking with disdain at the mirrors on the walls and ceiling.  
  
Rebecca looked around some more and then replied. "I was hoping to trade rooms until I noticed your had the same problems that mine had." She gave a weary smile; Kit noticed this and gave a smile knowing smirk. Rebecca winked at him briefly.  
  
Baloo looked around at the mirrors. "Yep, this guy must have a thing for mirrors. He must be one very sick puppy."  
  
Rebecca continued to laugh, then checked her wristwatch. Realizing that time, she wished them all good-night.  
  
"Molly," She called out. "Let's get some sleep, honey." Molly rushed to her, ever filled with energy. Kit waved good-bye to them both as they left.  
  
Baloo went after her to the doorway.  
  
"Yo, Beckers," He whispered to her. "Don't tell me your afraid of your own reflection." He grinned wolfishly.  
  
"No," Rebecca's brow was creased in confusion. Like there was something that was wrong but she couldn't tell what. "I just keep feeling that someone is actually watching me when I'm inside that room. Like he could see me no matter what I do, " And she left with Molly, leaving Baloo to wonder about what she meant by that. Kit didn't say anything, and Baloo didn't have to ask what was on his mind on her thoughts. She left their room, with Molly in her arms. Baloo didn't notice with she did as she left but Kit did; noticed how deftly she lifted the pile of newspapers with her free hand as she left the room. It was a move that was almost practiced, experienced. Kit stood there for a moment, admiring such a move. In all those years of him scraping and lifting from stores to survive, he never encountered someone who lifted something so large and so fast!  
  
After Baloo tried to salvage what was left from his sandwich, they both decided to get some sleep. And when the light's went out, they did, ever so confident that they were alone.  
  
If they only knew...  
  
Demitri Sinclair stood alone in his Sanctum. His private domain that not even Anya was aware of. A large room filled with his secret files and secret motives. And long, seemingly endless hallways that had nothing but glass windows.  
  
Windows that showed other rooms. Like Baloo and Kit's, for example.  
  
Demitri designed this complex to his exacting details and conditions. One of which was to have all of the visitor's quarters to be equipped with a one-way mirror. Demitri could just sit down in front of the window and see them doing their business, never knowing, never suspecting that he was watching them. It was an invasion of privacy, it was indecent. But Demitri did this not for thrills, but strictly on business. Or so he told himself every time he thought of it.  
  
The Sanctum was dark, lit only by a few desklamps and the lights that shone the titles in his bookcases. His books were well received for their class and sophistication, but in here, the books were all technical manuals. Mostly on military weapons, tactics, codes, cryptography, and ciphers. Several were on slight-of-hand, the occult, and strange conspiracies. Some were on anagrams, secret societies, and even darker natures. It was a dark place, and seemingly evil place, but Demitri felt it was necessary to have it to preserve his sanity, especially during these times.  
  
And if he ever got bored looking through the mirrors on the walls, he could climb up and literally walk above them on the ceiling mirrors, which were the same as the wall mounted ones. The ceiling mirrors have several layers of clear-glass and sound muffling properties, so he could walk freely without them noticing.  
  
And that was what he was doing: walking around the various rooms, seeing what he could see. It was like walking on air, with nothing under his feet, noting to tell him that he was on solid ground. It used to give him bad dreams but they soon subsided.  
  
He saw a rich couple, supposedly well-to-do in the social circles, screaming at each other in drunken rages. Demitri sometimes regretted that the rooms were soundproof. He wanted to hear about what they were ranting and raving about this time! Potential investors, be cursed!  
  
He walked over to Baloo's and Kit's quarters. The lights were off but he could still see them. The moonlight from the windows provided adequate lighting for him to see them. He was watching them the most since they entered the rooms. He watched Kit "voice" his concerns to Baloo. He couldn't hear him, of course. But his skills for reading lips were matched only by Johner, his chief of security.  
  
He walked over to Rebecca's room. It was too dark for him to see inside; it bothered him briefly. Usually, even moonlight was significant to fill the room. He looked down and realized that he was standing on a newspaper.  
  
Not standing directly on a pile, but someone taped sheets of newspaper over the mirrored ceilings and the mirror wall. Ever inch and square centi-meter of mirrored surface was covered in print!  
  
No way, He thought in astonishment. He saw a small pinprick of light glowing though one small hole in the layered newspapers. He knelt to peek in.  
  
It wasn't just the mirrors: The paintings on the walls, the mirrored surfaces of the endtables, even the felt covers of the radio speakers were covered! If he had the ability to look inside the bathroom, he'd find that Rebecca and Molly taped the mirrors and the frosted glass too!  
  
"I'm always the person on the outside looking in," he confessed to Anya one night.  
  
"It doesn't have to be that way," she comforted him. She held him in her arms, he had another panic attack; his every muscle twitching and spasming. He was quietly sobbing. She whispered her comforts to him, rocking him gently, never letting go. In the dark, he was all alone, vulnerable, a target. He bit down on his lips to keep back his screams; a trail of blood poured down his chin. He wouldn't scream; he'd hold it back, for her. For Anya.  
  
"You had that dream again."  
  
Demitri brushed away the memory as fast as he could, failing badly. His emotional breakdown during the Wars almost crippled him. It was not something he wanted to think about in the future.  
  
"What was the dream about," Anya asked.  
  
He walked away from the mirrors, feeling strangely defeated in some obscure way. He re-entered the office area of his Sanctum, seeing the new batch of intelligence files on his desk. It was neatly stacked among the other equipment on the desktop: A small intercom rig with a headphone set, a typewriter, several magnifying glasses on a faded leather desk blotter, several dog-eared books with trails of book ribbons leaking out, and at least five cups of tea. Also on the table were a few picture frames; one was his wedding picture taken with Anya, dressed in her perfect Victorian gown and him in a frock coat. Another was one of his niece, Clara. He sat down in his chair and opened the first folder he could get to.  
  
The news was not good. Using his old contacts inside the military and the intricate network of informants, spies, and contacts, he created a network of intelligence gathering that almost rivaled CSIA-Cape Susette Intelligence Agency. He had contacts inside Thembria's High Marshall's staff, a few executives from Kahn Industries, a legion of informants from law enforcement agencies and divisions, some from other countries. And they've all sent what they could to him, never knowing that the person they spy for is none other then Demitri Sinclair.  
  
Using some funds hidden from even his accountants, Sinclair financed various means of gathering information, some for his own personal use, some to sell through third parties. The more harmful, he kept, the ones that linked his rivals to various ner- do-wells that they'd pay good money to keep from the presses. Most of these people he used just for various jobs, gathering files and the "scoop" on their bosses and fellow execs. He rarely used them for harm, just as a means to an end. The rest he either discarded or used to influence various others to work as his eyes and ears, like he did with the others. But less sparingly. In addition, he kept up with the most up-to-date techniques of maintaining such a vast network: the purchasing of information; the subsidizing of informants; the use of cipher codes; and the designing and installing of a Byzantine communications system that allowed him to remain in close control with his legion of agents  
  
The Settlement's blockade maintained that they were holding positions so on one could enter nor leave the area. Yet, Anya's words about them attacking made him search deeper into the data. A well positioned military aide helped him plenty to confirm this.  
  
"It's getting worse," a voice said from behind him.  
  
"Yes, it is," Demitri confirmed. "What've you found out, Johner?"  
  
Johner, his chief of security, stepped from the shadows. His face a mix of scars and burns, a result from years of war and fighting. Yet, his eyes showed a great amount of insight and knowledge. A warrior poet, in his words, and a term that Demitri couldn't dispute. A person who could sever a man's spine with a nail file, yet could recite old sonnets like an actor. A large as a bear, with the looks, one might add; but very effective at his work.  
  
"The same: nothing's changed." Johner admitted. "We are attacking them. And for no apparent reason. All convoys who try to ship medical aid have either been re-routed or detained."  
  
Demitri listened as he continued scanning his files. Once he was finished and committed most of the impertinent facts to memory, he'd destroy all the files via a hidden chute that lead to one of the furnaces down below.  
  
"We have to get the prototype out for deployment." Demitri concluded after a moments thought.  
  
Johner shook his head; they've had this discussion numerous times. "The risk is too great. We still haven't gotten it to work perfectly. And in conditions like what we're expected to face-"  
  
"I know," Demitri argued. "But it's fast, has yet-unknown capabilities to them, and can outrun their interceptors." He turned to face him, showing his sorrowful face. "We have to get her."  
  
"What if it's a trap." Johner argued. He could yell and scream his head off in here. The walls were soundproof. And no one could ever hear them, even if they put their ears against the very walls that separated them from the Sanctum. "they already knew of her flight plan, knew where to get at her, so what's to stop them from using her to get to you?"  
  
"We don't even know who 'they' are," Demitri fairly roared at him.  
  
"Maybe," Johner shot back. "But we know they want the prototype. They already got the engine, from what she said. So maybe they want the whole package deal. I'm more concerned about how you'll take it."  
  
Demitri's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?" He hissed.  
  
Johner leaned forward to face him, point-blank. He didn't flinch, nor look away.  
  
"We both know how far you went, "Johner replied, his voice a deathly- monotone. "We both know how deep you fell into. I'm still surprised that you're still sane over that. But the fact of the matter still remains: How far will you go? And who are you willing to take with you into hell if it is necessary?"  
  
Demitri looked away, not responding. Not willing to respond. He clamped his mouth shut, afraid that he would say something he didn't mean.  
  
The Kipple....  
  
He crawled through the mess, his flight suit long torn to tatters. His fingertips raw and bleeding from the climbing and the falling. All around, the unburied dead laying on the decayed ground.  
  
"Only another twenty miles to go," He kept telling himself. "That's as far as I have to go. Another twenty miles."  
  
That's as far as I have to go.  
  
"You can't take the child," Johner said. It wasn't a question, nor a statement. It was a command.  
  
"I'm not taking the child," Demitri replied slowly. "We have excellent day-care facilities. She can stay with some children her own age while this pulls through."  
  
The island has excellent security with a garrison of guards to protect it from enemy attacks. But a lot of those guards have families and often put their interests over Demitri's opportunities. So Demitri ordered several sections of land put aside for family usage: Schools, day-care facilities, and even more-then-adequate commissary. The wives were satisfied with the vast selection the libraries had to offer, from housekeeping to correspondence courses. And the children were happy over the vast playgrounds and the schools. In fact, several wives and their children that grew up on this island became valued employees in his company. Most working "Orientation", which helped new families adjust better in their new homes.  
  
Demitri looked at Johner. "Did you think I'd be that crazy?" There was a dangerous glint in his eyes. To bring a child into.....  
  
Johner never turned away. "You tell me,"  
  
Demitri's hand lashed out, not at Johner, but at the contents of his desk. Papers and bound files flew in the air and fell to the dark carpeting. A desk lamp struck the wall and went out, the bulb shattered against the impact.  
  
"Do you think of me as a monster?!" He roared in the semi-darkness. "She's my wife, for God's sake."  
  
"And you'd do anything to get her back," Johner roared back. His face just inches from his employer's. "Doesn't matter who burns with you; old men, young women, innocent children. We both damn well know that." Without warning, Johner's hands reached out and grabbed Demitri's arms. Johner's huge hands held his arms like vise grips. He pulled him over the desk. Spittle flew from his lips and hit Demitri's forehead. "You got to stay in some control over this." His voice lowered. "You've been my friend a lot longer then you been my employer. Don't fall into the abyss again." And he let go of Demitri, who proceeded to wipe the spittle from his brow.  
  
"We have to get her back," Demitri continued, his rage subsiding. "If I don't try...." He didn't continue, he couldn't.  
  
"You going to ask him?" Johner asked, changing the subject.  
  
"I'm not sure," Demitri answered slowly. "He may not agree to this."  
  
Johner bent down to pick up the papers and files. He tossed the broken desklamp almost absently. "We better decide fast; we're running out of time."  
  
"I know," Demitri's eyes started to dull, his voice slowing, introspective, deathly quiet. "And we've lost so much time already."  
  
Two Hours Later...  
  
Demitri Sinclair sat alone in his Sanctum, his chair creaking every time his body shifted it's weight. He was tired and weary, and looked the part in every detail. A coffee mug dangled over his armrest by his finger. It reeked of scotch but so did Demitri a moment ago.  
  
He hated to drink; but he hated to be outside. In the community, where everyone could see him and pick him apart like a lab specimen. Where everyone screams his successes in the open ground but whispers his problems behind closed doors. Every party, every dance, every event or gala he had to attend, he could hear them whispering about him. Admist in their waltzes and in between sips of wine and puffs of cigars, they could be heard whispering about his flaws and frailties:  
  
"Look at him, all the riches at his command and yet he can't get his thoughts in a row."  
  
"See him. Mr. Sinclair. A man as rich as Midas yet as insane as The Mad Monk."  
  
"All that grace and beauty Lady Anya possess, and they are wasted upon with such a flawed person as Sinclair."  
  
"He survives the Kipple, yet we are the ones to truly suffer with such a brute in our presence."  
  
"He's a cold-blooded murderer. He killed in the Wars, and I think he enjoyed every moment of it."  
  
"Look at him, with his shaking hands and his darting eyes. He figures us as the Regime. Watch him closely when he cuts his steak; might drive it into you if you move too fast."  
  
He awoke from all this, drifting upwards into counsciencness like a diver seeking the water's surface. Once, all this talk bothered him to no end. He listened as they spoke of him; thinking that he was too naive to hear, or too blasé to care of such rubbish.  
  
"They don't know you," Anya comforted him after that first party. It was the first they attended, celebrating the first year of Constance Air's success and it's future as a leading contender confirmed as "rock-solid".  
  
"They wouldn't last ten seconds in the Kipple," She spat in anger. She was usually so even-tempered, so calm and collective. But their words wounded her more then her husband. "You lasted over a week; that's seven days more then they would last."  
  
"You haven't seen it," Demitri replied quietly. His voice was slurred from the scotch and burbon. "I didn't want to but I did. I didn't think I'd make it out. The things I've seen..." And he gulped down another shot before he could finish. Before he allowed himself to finish.  
  
"Why won't you tell me about it?" She asked, begging, pleading to be let in. To enter a part of himself he wouldn't allow her in. Where he wouldn't allow himself into.  
  
"Why?" She asked again.  
  
"Why?" He whispered to himself. He rubbed his eyes awake as he checked his watch. The Sanctum was still dark, still gothic. It lacked a clock but Demitri never went far without a watch or a timepiece with him.  
  
2:32 AM.  
  
Perfect timing, he thought briefly as he walked one bookcase and lifted a cover up from it's mount. The bookcase slid aside to reveal another passageway. One that was more brightly lit and less shadowy. Demitri blinked his eyes at such blinding light, but his eyes rapidly adjusted. The passage way led to a hidden outlet to the Underground Tunnel Network, which led to his CIC center. Command, Intelligence, Control. The brainworks of his industrial empire.  
  
The Tunnel Network was used mostly for maintainance and repairs, but it was also used as a evacuation option. One passageway led to several converted submarines that could carry the entire population of his island plus another hundred if necessary. He left nothing to chance, nothing to risk if he could help it.  
  
But one passageway led to his CIC. Every multi-national corporation owned one: a collective that made sure that everything was working to plan. That all crises were resolved quickly and quietly. Khan owned one, hidden inside the sub- basements of Khan Towers inside Cape Susette. And he could bet good money that Khan knew of his CIC as well. Information was as valuable a commodity as currencies and they both were filthy rich with both.  
  
The CIC was in "Gray Mode", meaning that it was on nightwatch. Few people stood watch at their respected posts. The CIC was full of cubicles, consoles, and maps. A giant map, bigger then even the one in his office, took up the entire wall. Updated constantly on the hour, a long sliding ladder stood idly by.  
  
He whispered to the officer on the watch that he needed to use the transmitter. The officer nodded and silently escorted everyone from the center. Leaving Demitri all alone. He walked by, seeing everything at once. And saw the typewriter-like device siting on a podium in the center of the room, under a hinged plastic cover. It was locked by two sets of keys, one was always on hand nearby, the other was reserved for Demitri and a few of his trusted personnel like Johner. He unlocked it and turned to device on.  
  
He disliked the Communicator. It was new and rarely trusted, even for such prototype technology. Using radio signals that used a complex coding sequence, they could in theory, type a coded message into another console, which would decipher it and display it in almost real-time. The intercepted transmissions would be useless because even if they had a Communicator of their own, it was adaptable to run over 75,000 different variations of codes! It was a huge leap from the old decoders of old, but only so much.  
  
He typed in his message, knowing that the person he's contacting would be awake even at this hour.  
  
CODEC: LOG IN; QUERY  
  
CODEC SEQUENCE 11374  
  
IDENT: SINCLAIR, DEMITRI.  
  
CONFIRM?  
  
Codec was another term for "Which codes you want to use today?". Ident was to describe the user in case the records need conformation or future reference. Confirm was a simple command of yes/no variation, to respond, "Yes, I am Demitri and Codec 11374 is acceptable."  
  
He typed yes. And waited.  
  
He didn't have to wait long.  
  
MESS: Khan1  
  
HELLO, OLD FRIEND. WHAT DO YOU ASK OF ME?  
  
The conversation went like this, all in complete detail from the records.  
  
SINCLAIR: I NEED TO GET PAST KHAN'S BLOCKADE, COVERTLY PREFERABLE.  
  
KHAN1: HARD TO ACCOMPLISH. SEARCH AND DESTROY WAS NOT MEANT AS A BLUFF.  
  
SINCLAIR: CONFORM; BUT MUST REPEAT IMPARATIVE; SLIP THROUGH UNDETECTED. UNNOTICED. ANYA HAS BEEN FOUND.  
  
KAHN1: HOW?  
  
SINCLAIR: NO TIME TO EXPLAIN. POSSIBLE TO REROUTE CERTAIN PATROLS FROM VARIOUS AREAS?  
  
KHAN1: POSSIBLE BUT NOT EASY. BUT WILL TRY.  
  
SINCLAIR; WHAT SHER UP TO?  
  
KHAN1: NOT SAYING, VERY CONCERNED ABOUT BLOCKADE. EVEN SIDETRACKED BY CERTAIN MILITARY PERSONELL. HIGH RANKS.  
  
SINCLAIR: HOW?  
  
KHAN1: UNKNOWN, EVEN CABINET KEPT FROM LOOP  
  
SINCLAIR: HOW LONG TO INPLIMENT PLANS?  
  
KHAN1: TWO DAYS, YOU SHOULD GET THERE IN TIME. GOOD LUCK.  
  
SINCLAIR: NEED IT; THANKS.  
  
With that now out of the way, Sinclair called his staff and told them of his plans. He gave his orders and told them to get it ready by morning. By then, Baloo and Mrs. Cunningham would receive their orders and he would leave for the Typhon Sector and Anya. 


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Complications (Part 1)  
  
Kit's dreams rarely bothered him in his waking life; he always figured them to be mudpies from his mind. Nothing to concern him about or to fear when he wakes up. But there were some moments were he wanted to scream himself awake rather then continue on with the images from his mind.  
  
He awoke the next morning, greeted by the silent bathing of sunlight from the windows. Rubbing his eyes, he went to the bathroom to shower. And when he got out, Baloo never so much as moved!  
  
He smirked lightly as he toweled off his hair. Baloo laid there, snoring loudly.  
  
A knock on the door and an envelope slipped under the door caught his attention. A small white block of paper laid there in front of the front door. He walked to it and picked it up, eyeing the gold trim and silver italic lettering and it with careful fingers.  
  
There was no signs of tampering or dust with the crisp white paper, which excluded any kind of drugs or poisons. Karnage was known to hide poison inside his ransom notes, offering not only his hostage but the cure for the poison...for a price of course. He read the letter:  
  
"Mr. Sinclair awaits your Presence in Hanger #12 at 14:00 hrs. Please bring your invitation for clearance.  
  
Thank you"  
  
He read it, read it again twice, then remembered that Sinclair offered to show them his new prototype today. 14:00 hrs, 2:00 P.M.. he thought it funny, in a peculiar sense, that a person like Sinclair would still use military time as a reference.  
  
He opened the door, the letter still in his hand, hopping to catch the messenger before it was too late; and collided right into Mrs. Cunningham. They both fell to the floor, Kit's head struck the doorjamb and Rebecca let out a yelp of alarm. Actually, it was more of a screech then a yelp; but it was enough to awake Baloo into a frenzy. He leaped from his bed and ran towards them without questions. But failed to realize that his feet were getting entangled with his bedsheets, causing him to soon fall on his hapless boss and navigator. Kit, whose head was already hurting from the doorjamb, now found his face covered in Baloo's armpit. He screamed for fresh air. Rebecca struggled to get up, with Baloo's foot jammed in the small of her back.  
  
Demitri watched all this from above, behind the ceiling mirror. His face held a grim smile and he shook his head sadly. The things you see without your camera, he thought idly.  
  
Hanger #12  
  
2:00 P.M.  
  
The hanger door way was huge; not to say that it was large enough to hold several cargo planes and bombers, no. It was safe to say, it was Huge!! A set of double-door large enough to hold the Iron Vulture possibly with room to spare! It was hidden, or burrowed, on the side of a mountain. Demitri picked his island well and use of every inch of space that he could get away with.  
  
The doors were protected by a set of AA Batteries, special ones that could be used on ground targets as well. Kit knew that such a modification was illegal and unethical in wartime confrontations. He didn't have to enlist to know that. The Batteries were well-hidden behind more layers of camo-cloth. Kit now noticed them when he knew what to look for. He saw heavy-caliber weapons being hefted by burly soldiers, more of Sinclair's men. Some held the standard Insonc LV-42A carbines, but Kit noticed a few with Levert T-23s slung over their shoulder. Whatever they have behind those doors, it was important enough for defend with T-23s. Kit remembered them well; special weapons that had two ammo clips meant for firing; one for maybe armor-piercing, another for tracers. The ammo-mix was interchangable. But the weapon itself was hefty, sometimes requiring the help of a tripod or a vehicle mount. Nasty and nastier...  
  
Sinclair walked towards them, Zatherias in tow. They were both dressed neatly and casually. Demitri wore another set of his gray shirts and faded blue jeans. But he decided to wear the long-sleeved version this time, in total disregard for the humidity. Zatherias wore cleaner coveralls. Both must've suffered some ailment last night, Kit pondered for a moment. Demitri's right arm moved stiffly, not bending at the elbow. A light jacket covered what injury he might've sustained. Zatherias' left leg was also wrong; not moving at the knees, giving him the appearance of limping. He still walked a little stooped-over, but Kit didn't realize his problem until later when it counted.  
  
"Good afternoon," Demitri greeted. "Shall we?" He gestured them to accompany them inside the hanger.  
  
"Mr. Sinclair-" Rebecca started.  
  
"Mrs. Cunningham," Demitri looked like he was just remembering something important. "I was going over your recommendations last night. And I've considered your problems." He turned to face her. "You are correct in this instance; I have decided to cancel your contract in this situation; you can go back at you leisure and you'll still retain my personal recommendations in the future. The business grant will continue as promised. Does this pose a problem?"  
  
Rebecca shook her head. During their interviews with Sinclair's lawyers and consultants, she signed several papers about Sinclair's business grant. It was enough for her to live comfortably for a long time, whether Higher For Hire becomes a huge success or not. But she hoped to place it into Molly's trust fund, as she usually did when her profits warranted it. Sinclair's grants were enough for her, but his personal recommendation....she could only become mute with such grand shock.  
  
"Good," Sinclair looked pleased but slightly distant.  
  
Kit looked at the hanger doors with disinterest; not to say that he was bored with it. But he did notice the 4-inch armor plating on both sides with a concrete frame in between. And his noticed the machine gun nests and the AA batteries. So far, he seen everything but what was inside and that was something he'd want to avoid in any normal situation.  
  
They stepped inside, via a man-sized door that had the looks of a bank vault.  
  
Kit whistled, as did Baloo.  
  
The hanger was huge!  
  
If the door could allow an Iron Vulture through, the hanger could hold at least five Vultures as well! Underneath this mountain, Sinclair converted it into a giant hanger, compete with everything it would require machine parts in a warehouse, a metal shop if one certain part couldn't be found and had to be made from scratch. A library full of manuals. He could see several cargo specialists steering in the roll cages of their giant powerloaders, machines that resembled a skeletal mechanical Golem and much stronger. Kit never saw a powerloader but read about them in several articles. He saw the specialists grip the control grip that picked up their movements and transferred them to the metal arms and legs of the machine, multiplying their carrying capacity by a factor of hundreds, possibly thousands. Baloo and Wildcat watched as the Specialist used his loader like an extension of his own body, never over-compensating, never a wasted movement. The diesel engine to the loader's back groaned several times under the strain of a particular pallet but none for the ware. Kit could barely see the name Millipede under the layers of dirt and grit.  
  
Wildcat whistled. He never saw a loader either, but was just as impressed as Kit was.  
  
"Impressed?" Demitri asked kindly. His mood was casual, almost calming under the conditions he's endured over the months.  
  
"Yes," Kit answered truthfully. "I never seen a loader before, at least not in person."  
  
"If you like that, you're going to love this." Demitri pointed to the center of the hanger, where a huge mass stood idle.  
  
They turned and gasped at the sight in front of them:  
  
It was large and ungainly, but had an elegance about it. It's angular, slightly curvy hull stood a strong contrast with the oily, messy hanger. It's sleek, gunmetal gray color shone under the harsh lights. But dispite it's asthecticly appealing curves, it still looked slightly blocky and inelegant, like it was crudely fashioned at first with building blocks and then sculpted later on in the process. The back was mostly that, blocky. The front was curved appeared off except for the notched front which held the cockpit. Kit could see the windshield allowed the pilot to see both above and below him. The same sort of thing that resembled the work station of bombardiers of large bombers. Kit noticed that it could've been a freighter by its large mass and it's oversized cargo doors in the rear. The calm-shell doors that resembled those on the Sea Duck were nearly identical, except that these door could have the Duck fit right through. There were no wings, or external fuel tanks. The oversized engines fitted nearly flush against the haul, it's purpose given away by the air intakes and the massive exhaust ports. Baloo recognized them as only jet engines; he had to use a similar version before and was amazed to live it through!  
  
Demitri walked towards it and the others followed. Dimly, Kit noticed that a few techs were staring at the group. Not in a noticeable fashion, but in an almost covert sort of way. He inched Molly closer towards him.  
  
Baloo noticed the name and registry on the hull: Sulaco IPX-24601.  
  
They looked underneath the Sulaco, seeing the two sets of bomb-bay doors. Both were concealed by the bulk of the engines and fitted nearly flush against the hull plating. Around him, Kit noticed several such platting with warning symbols in blood-red text: Danger, Explosive Bolts. More then several; almost all over the ship.  
  
"As you can see here," Demitri pointed to the bomb-bay doors, explaining. "These are meant for several different purposes; with these, we could drop cargo, bombs, materials, whatever. But we configured them to hold a massive variety of aircraft, mostly small-sized interceptors and scout craft. They're loaded right now with our latest Wasp- class Interceptors. And two scouting crafts." He walked over to the engines and pointed to the exhaust ports. His voice like that of a almost excited child.  
  
"These ports are what gives Sulaco a certain tactical advantage. The engines force air and pushes it downwards at an incredible speed, pushing the craft upwards. And we added some extra ports to increase the maneuverability."  
  
Baloo nodded. Khan had something similar in the works but never gotten the bugs out yet. But at least he got it out of his office, where Baloo crashed it at in the past!  
  
Wildcat was admiring the landing struts; there was no tires to speak of, except for a set landing pads and some hydraulics struts to lower them and lift them from their housings. He kept Molly in tow, his hand wavering towards the airfoil hidden in the back of his sweater. Something was wrong; several of the techs were gone, most of the noises that came with working a hanger were slowing or stopping. The loading crews were almost gone and those that were left kept turning their heads at Sinclair's direction. Sinclair and them.  
  
Zatherias was nearby, speaking silently to a scar-faced bear. The bear wore a gunbelt around his waist which hung low until it almost touched his knees. Kit could see the handle of a very large caliber handgun nestled in the holster. Demitri continued on with his dialogue with Rebecca.  
  
"Four decks total, with enough fuel to circumvent the globe if need be.-"  
  
Certain people were putting their tools away. Filing them at the tool desks for the night. Some were powering down their loaders, parking them into their proper spots. A very finite amount passed objects to each other, hidden by a piece of cotton cloth or something.  
  
Baloo whispered to Kit: "You see them too," It wasn't a question. Kit nodded briefly, desperately trying not to look around or give his suspicions away.  
  
"Excuse me?" Demitri stopped his speech and advanced towards Kit.  
  
Kit didn't move; dared not.  
  
Around him, it was becoming much more noticeable. Demitri knew it as did Zatherias and Johner. Johner silently signaled to his second-in-command, Londo, to send help. Londo did, moving quickly and swiftly to get the others of their security force. People, workers mostly, started to gather. Their once hidden objects now shown in the light: knives and firearms. Demitri felt like whistling in admiration; smuggling unregistered firearms into his complex was not an easy task, but it helped confirm what he already suspected. But he didn't let it show on his face. He continued on towards Kit and Molly. Kit's hands moved quietly to his airfoil. He gripped it, his thumb hovering over the safety catch. Molly's arm was gripped by his other hand, only not so tightly.  
  
"Is there a problem?" Demitri asked politely.  
  
Baloo inched closer to Rebecca and Wildcat. Around him, around them all, the workers surrounded them. Molly started to fidget, feeling the slight tension of the group. Wildcat was still busy admiring the landing struts of the Sulaco. Dimly, Kit could hear the sounds of wrenches being slapped over open palms, or screwdrivers gently scrapping over rusted metal drums.  
  
"Oh, yes." Demitri's eyes scanned his surroundings, his head never moving. His eyes narrowed slightly and that enraged intensity returned. "You seem to have a slight problem, Mr. Cloudkicker,"  
  
Kit gripped Molly's arm, ready to run. Molly starter to panic; they all were.  
  
They notice it too, Demitri noted. They're not my workers; assassins, most likely.  
  
"You have a piece of lint on your suit," Demitri admonished silently. "Let me fix that."  
  
His lifted his stiff arm to Kit's shoulder; he could that their were nothing on his hand.  
  
Kit didn't know what exactly happened; not even when Demitri pushed him and Molly away with his free hand. But he did recognized the familiar sound of a spring clip snap. The same spring clip that made Demitri's arm seem lame. The same that slapped a hidden handgun from it's hiding place up his sleeve into his open palm. Demitri fired a round almost as soon as the automatic was slapped into his hand, sending the nearest figure behind Kit down to the ground.  
  
The results were almost immediate:  
  
The Assassins charged them, their wrenches and screwdrivers rushing towards them. Baloo grabbed Rebecca and literally threw her up the Sulaco's cargo ramp and into the cargo bay. Wildcat joined her less then a second later. Zatherias ran inside the ship and slammed a alarm with his fist. A klaxon sounded over the hanger. Workers scrambled around, some screaming in panic, others running in panic. Johner pulled his guns out and joined Demitri in the fight. Two more went down, both by well-placed rounds from his gun. Demitri ran for cover, firing over their heads along the way. He found it behind a cargo pod. Johner hid behind a landing strut.  
  
Kit and Molly ran; Kit grabbed her arm and was more carrying her then running besides her. Her screams traveled from one section of the hanger to the other. A loader was just up ahead and they hid behind that. Kit knew that it was a pretty lousy place to hide in a fight like this; but his mind a reeling for other options. He looked around, almost desperately for a better place of refuge.  
  
The guards joined in on the fray. Firing at the workers when they had an open line of fire. But some fired back, hitting them and bringing them down. One Assassin took a T-23 from a dead solider and sprayed the hanger with armor-piercing rounds. Metal and plaster disintegrated by the T-23's rounds. It's loud roar echoed throughout the massive hanger.  
  
"Zatherias," Demitri roared, trying to be heard over the "Dueler". "Start her up, NOW!!!" He dumped his spent magazine and inserted a fresh one, fired it almost blindly over the cargo pod.  
  
Zatherias ran towards the ship, dodging bullets as he went. For such a large fellow, he was incredibly fast! Even with his stiff leg, he still carried some distance. But a stray bullet caught him on the shoulder, pinwheeling him to the floor. Zatherias almost didn't notice it, his eyes burning with more rage then pain, he reached into his pocket and suddenly his boot exploded. And so did the gaggle of Assassins running towards him. Zatherias turned his leg in another direction, firing the last round in his hidden "Bang- tube", basically a homemade grenade launcher that was strapped to his leg. With his ace-in-the- hole gone, he ripped the cotton fabric of his coveralls and undid the mounting straps to his 'tube with one hand, the same one with the wounded shoulder. While seeking safety with his working arm.  
  
"Johner, cover Zath!" Demitri ordered. He fired another round, catching the one with the "Dueler" in the chest. His center of gravity shifted and he fell, his finger convulsive on the trigger as he now sprayed several of his fellow Assassins. Johner ran towards his fallen comrade but was cut off by more firing; he barely had time to fall back before he fell as well.  
  
Kit was now working on a plan; getting Molly onboard the ship. It was risky but so was standing in a middle of a battle. He scurried his way inside the roll cage of the loader, desperately wishing that he read the manual more then he did the pilot's regs. He never thought he had to work a loader, but then he never considered being here with Sinclair, or a gunfight, or events that led up to this moment. He fingered and thumbed the various safeties and power switches. There was a loud rumble from behind him and that was enough to tell him that the loaders engine was working. He reached over and gripped the control stick with his hands and lifted the massive arm up, nearly flipping himself over in the process.  
  
That's it, His mind shouted at him. And he reared his arm back, making the loader respond to his awkward movements, and slammed the loader's arm into a support girder. The hanger shook, tools fell from their resting places. A few people stumbled and fell. Kit pulled his one arm out and gripped the quick-release trigger of the roll cage. He had only one chance to pull off what he was planning. He reared his arm back and slammed it into the already-dented girder and that following rumbling was enough for him to tell him to get the hell out of dodge.  
  
He hit the trigger and the roll cage flew up and out. He jumped off the loader, feeling a twinge of regret that he might not use another loader like it again, and grabbed Molly. His sprint was uneven by his own earthquake. Girders and bolts fell from above, crashing into equipment, people, and the ground. Dully, he could hear Sulaco's engines powering up, it's massive turbines spinning and humming loudly. He flipped open his airfoil and covered Molly with it like a makeshift shield.  
  
Johner yelled at Demitri for something. Demitri, who was now inserting his last free clip, tried to hear over the earth's rumbling, the engines firing and the constant roar of gunfire. Johner was yelling for him to look at something, his hand waving in the direction of the gunfire. Demitri looked up, his sidearm ready.  
  
Several patrols could be seen from the huge gap from the massive double doors behind the Assassins, all not firing. It didn't take much to tell him that they were help the Assassins and finish him off and the others just by sheer firepower and numbers. His mind reeled for solutions, logical and rational. One popped up, it was neither logical or rational.  
  
"Johner, fall back!" Demitri roared.  
  
"What about the rescue team?" Johner yelled back. His eyes went wild; Johner never liked backing off from a fight.  
  
"We'll get to them later." Demitri looked for that fallen T-23, his eyes searching as he fired blindly into the hanger. "Now go, I won't be too far behind."  
  
Johner nodded reluctantly. By his morals, he should be the last one to leave; first one in and the last one out while his comrades left. Even though he trusted Demitri less since Anya's disappearance, he obeyed regardless.  
  
Demitri crouched-ran to the fallen Assassin with the coveted T-23, dodging fire as he approached him. He grabbed the Dueler with sweaty palms and checked the mags; both were half empty, but it would do the task that he required.  
  
"Let's rock!" Demitri roared in fury as he hefted the massive gun and emptied both mags into the furthest fuel tanks. There was dull-thump and then the tanks exploded, raining fire and smoke into the approaching patrols and the remaining Assassins. The entire hanger shook violently. Demitri fell to the ground and covered himself in a fetal position as the ignited fuel fell to the ground like brimstone. Blankets of flame covered entire sections of the hanger. Dimly, he could hear scream of the men on fire, their bodies consuming in colors of red and orange. The patrols flew back by the blast wave, toppling them apart like a deck of cards in a windstorm.  
  
The turbines' hum was increasing and there was a slight squeak of the skids. Sulaco was moving! But slowly and dully, like it was almost lurching away from the chaos around it.  
  
Demitri got up and felt brief stab of pain in his arm. A hole was burning inside his shirt and the flesh behind it as well. He looked down at the fallen Assassin that he took the dueler from and ripped open his shirt, hoping not to find what he was suspecting. There was nothing on his chest; no dog tags, no visbile scars. Disgusted and a bit disappointed, he left without fanfare to recover Zatherias and board Sulaco.  
  
He was too late.  
  
Kit stood alone with Zatherias, desperately trying to haul his bulk to the loading ramp. Molly stood at ramp, anxious at what was going on around her. Demitri ran faster and nearly slid at the two like a baseball player. The damage to Zatherias was severe: his legs were badly burnt, tiny blue flames still danced around the blackened fabric. The one side of his face was scorched and he stank of smoke. He wasn't going to live long, no matter what Demitri did and all three of them knew it.  
  
"Head back to the ship," Demitri ordered Kit. "I'll bring him along,"  
  
"No," Kit shook his head. "You need me to help him up." He didn't release his grip, but actually tried harder. His joints creaking under the strain.  
  
"I'll do it," Demitri rose his voice. "Go, now!"  
  
"No," They both looked down, surprise that Zatherias was still awake in spite of his injuries. "Leave Zatherias, leave now; leave in Sulaco." His voice was strained, dry and cracked.  
  
"I'm not leaving a fallen man behind," Demitri retorted. "I'm not leaving you, friend."  
  
Sulaco's landing skids were now a few inches of the ground, in a few moments, with or without them, Sulaco would leave them.  
  
"Leave Zatherias." Zatherias' arm leaped out and grabbed Demitri's wounded one. He winced but didn't scream. "Listen to Zatherias: Find Lady Anya; protect her, you must."  
  
"And I must help you," Demitri screamed. His voice breaking from sheer emotion rather then the intense heat and the smoke. Around him, every was in chaos. The smoke was getting thicker. His chest ached from the smoke, and his throat ached as well.  
  
"Zatherias has been many things; Zatherias should've spoken when he could've; Zatherias had been foolish in the past; but Zatherias is still a protector of Sinclairs, all of them. You are Sinclair, and good friend. You are like brother to Zatherias." Demitri's eyes brimmed with tears, matching his dying friend's own. "Zatherias has been and always shall be your friend. And if you are friend to Zatherias, you will obey his final wish. Leave Zatherias and save Anya, before it is too late. Both of you." He glanced at Kit with sorrowful eyes. Kit's eyes matched his feelings. Zatherias reached into his bloodied shirt pocket with his one working hand and pulled out a string of prayer beads; he handed them to Kit.  
  
"Give them to Zatherias' sister; tell her of Zatherias' bravery and honor. Will you do that, Kit Cloudkicker?" Kit nodded his head in silent determination and resolve. It was enough for Zatherias as an answer. Almost peacefully, he closed his eyes and waited for death to claim him. Demitri held him a moment longer, tears trailing down his sooty face. He hugged him in silent good-byes. And when the business was over, he gently laid him down on the ground and they both rushed to Sulaco's ramp, running up it and closing it. As the ramp lifted up, he saw the last of his old friend, laying there among fire and his own blood, silent but still vigilant. The best protector he could have as a friend besides Johner. And he left him out there to die...alone.  
  
Around the ship, the hanger was deteriorating, girders started to fall in earnest. Some slamming against the hull, ringing it like a gong. Johner struggled with the controls as ship flew out of the hanger and into opened skies, a little scorched but none worse for wear.  
  
Inside, Baloo and Wildcat had managed to understand the ship's controls in some rudimentary way. Pressing a button here and tapping a control there seemed to work. Johner came by and relieved Baloo from the pilot's seat and that was a slight blessing for Baloo, even though he rather be the one flying. Wildcat manned the Engineering station of the cockpit and they soon had the Sulaco in working order, ready to fly out of Demitri Sinclair's island and into the Settlements. Rebecca was in the cargo hold, hugging Molly and covering her with kisses, Molly did the same. She never cried throughout the whole scene in the hanger. More startled then scared. Kit stood nearby, fingering the prayer beads in sadness.  
  
Nearby, inside one of the bathrooms, or Head, in naval terms, Demitri Sinclair sat alone on the cold tiles. His back was against one of the cabinets. His body reeked of smoke; his hands and face covered in soot. But his hands was buried in his face, muffling his sobs of anguish.  
  
Londo Mitchell, second-in-command of Security, looked at the aftermath of the hanger. The fire was finally put out and the initial team started to sift through the evidence and the bodies. Most were burned beyond recognition by the fuel explosion. They already accounted that to a full-salvo burst with a dueler, which was either insane or just plain stupid. Zatherias was found among the dead and was placed in a body bag marked with his name; ready for autopsy and final burial.  
  
The Sulaco was missing from the hanger. Witnesses reported seeing the craft leaving the hanger and heading due east, then making a sharp turn at north into the mountains of the nearest continent. Radar was useless there, making it perfect for such an escape route.  
  
The initial investigation was far from over and already it looked bad: over twenty people dead so far, mist with weapons within their grasp. Military models and such. And the fire damage has literally destroyed all chances of finding their identities. And with the prototype now missing, and with it's unknown capabilities, it made an excellent getaway vessel.  
  
So far, Demitri Sinclair was declared missing along with his guests. Security Chief Johner as well. That alone made him smile a bit; the so-called indestructible Johner now missing, probably dead, made him wonder about how long it'll take until he took over the late Johner's desk. Johner he could pretty much live without; but a high profile personality like Sinclair would be harder to hide from the public. And that problem with Anya....  
  
He brushed the thought from his head; already it didn't look good. Several dozen shell casings and burnt bodies and a hanger that was still smoldering. Little evidence to deal with.  
  
A security aide walked towards him, careful not to trip or kick away some important piece of evidence. Her movements were careful but precise. She held a small memo on her person and handed it to Londo. He opened it and read the contents, his expression getting more grim by the second. He nodded and walked away from the hanger.  
  
He walked to the executives offices and walked into a certain one. The inside was dim, almost dark. The curtains were drawn, blocking out the sunlight. Behind the desk, a lone figure sat alone, smoking a foul-smelling cigarette. The cigarette dangled from between two nicotine-stained fingers.  
  
"Sit down," The figure growled in a dry voice.  
  
Londo did, finding an empty chair to sit in. This was not good.  
  
"Do you know why I enjoy my work?" The figure asked silently.  
  
Londo shook his head.  
  
"It's a good kind of work; I make my own hours, I live for the Cause. And I know that soon, we will become a power to be reckoned with. And the only thing I have to worry about is someone who is capable of unraveling all that we've done coming around to do just that."  
  
Londo nodded some more, just as the Figure exploded.  
  
"And you let it happen!" He roared at him, unafraid or uncaring that others might be listening. "You've let him escape this island; and you let him hire some fringe elements that might already complicate matters further already. Like they haven't already been done with Anya."  
  
"I told you before," Londo replied slowly, like he would to a stubborn child. "We should've killed her outright. A bomb or a salvo of rockets would've done the job. But no, you had to drop her off into enemy territory hoping that she would become a hostage. She should've died, and would've if you and your people listened to me."  
  
"It was necessary to accomplish our objectives, of which are none of your concern." The Figure cut him off before he could continue. "I'm more concerned about Sinclair finding more about us."  
  
"I know," Londo retorted. "I gave you the flight plan, and you said that the news would kill him. It didn't, it just made him more determined. And just how did she manage to send a message through a ECJ?" He opened his palms, expecting an explanation.  
  
"She must've used every once of power she had available and went past the ECJs just by sheer force. It still amazes me about her abilities. First a few interceptors, then this. To be honest: We still don't really know."  
  
"So what's the deal with Sinclair?" Londo asked impatiently.  
  
"What are you talking about?" The figure replied slowly, the cigarette in his fingers dipped a little; the fingers numb.  
  
"Why did you authorize the hit-men on them?" Londo answered, now unsure. Something was wrong here.  
  
The figure stood up from his chair and took a puff from his cigarette. His answer was a deathly monotone, but a slightly unnerved one. "I thought you did."  
  
"I didn't." Londo's eyes went wide. "You don't think-"  
  
"Sinclair is not that crazy," The figure replied. "He's a bit unstable. He was even before Anya's disappearance, but not so much that he'd staged this. And for what reason: he's already hired some old friends of his from the Wars to help; he probably doesn't even need those fringe elements right now. He's got his rescue team, the prototype. He could've left at anytime."  
  
"But he didn't." Londo was getting impatient with this issue, as usual. "He gotten that team set up for months; Why this small-time cargo business? Why them specifically?"  
  
"Find out; that's what your there for."  
  
Londo turned from his seat and started to leave, then something caught his mind.  
  
"What if they compare notes?" He asked. "Sinclair's not stupid, neither is Anya for that matter. If they start to understand; I mean, if they understand the pure scope of it all-"  
  
"It will be taken care of." The Figure ended that discussion quickly. "But one thing that still bothers me: You didn't bring in that hit-squad, neither did I. And Sinclair might not have. So the big question remains: who did and why?"  
  
"Don't know, but we have to make sure the journey doesn't get easier for them." Londo retorted grimly.  
  
"And how do you intended to do that?"  
  
The Sulaco's corridors were small, to say the least. It was narrow, almost getting Baloo stuck against several bulkheads; they were also gray, and had a utilitarian design. There was no injuries except for a few scrapes and bruises, they were fine. Sinclair's arm wound was mostly cosmetic in nature, a small second-degree burn that was later treated by himself. Rebecca stood around the well-stocked infirmary supplying relief and medical aid whenever possible. And if they couldn't come to her, she came to them. Molly was spared such injuries, but her mother had a good-sized bruise on her shoulder from Baloo throwing her up the cargo ramp.  
  
Talk was kept to the bare minimum. They've flown for almost three hours, keeping at an almost random course. Johner flew most of the time and Baloo stood nearby watching the other fly, remember the details of this craft. Baloo hated to have others flying for him, wanting to take the controls himself. Another part wanted to see just what this craft was capable of doing. Kit sat nearby at the navigator station, reading a map set over a drafting table and working a set of co-ordinates with a pad and pencil. He didn't hear about what the others were doing because he had a set of headset over his ears, tuned to the ships radio, his one remaining hand playing the nearby dials almost absently. The radio's model was familiar and Kit had no trouble making it work just the way he wanted it too.  
  
Wildcat was looking over the blueprints of the Sulaco, see it's designs and abilities with almost wide-eyed glee. Baloo looked them over for almost several minutes but quit trying to understand them. Sinclair was excellent at creating the ship but his notes were scrambled and illiterate, like the writings of a doctor in a patient's chart.  
  
The energy surge that was once in their systems were long gone, making them tired and slightly repressed and even more introverted. Most kept to their own counsel, trying to piece together what had just happened earlier. Johner was sipping a home- brewed power-shake that was in a thermos under the pilot's seat. He barely grimaced at the slightly foul odor and much fouler flavor. Baloo still looked over his shoulder, looking at the ship's controls. Johner would let in a piece of input to Baloo about the piloting of Sulaco and Baloo would ask some relevant questions, which were promptly answered.  
  
Rebecca and Molly sat together at the lounge, which was on Deck 2, mostly the living areas and storage. Earlier, Rebecca looked at every room available, most were set as barracks of a naval ship, double and triple bunks lined against the walls with footlockers separating them. She looked at the military surplus footlockers and saw the hard wood texture and the checkerboard design on the top, meant for the bored solider to engage in a friendly game of chess.  
  
Dimly, she saw Molly pick up a forgotten chess piece nearby. It was a white pawn.  
  
That's just what we are, Rebecca thought hotly. Pawns, but for what? And who is the chessmaster of this sick game?  
  
Molly put the piece in her pocket and looked around. The infirmary was nearby, where Rebecca found the medical equipment to treat the others, and her friends. She looked at everyone, at her insistence even Demitri. He did so, allowing his shirt to be removed and allowed her startled looks at the markings on his chest. Rebecca had seen many horrid things in her life, but never at a single individual. She tried not to stare, to gape, at the scars and the scar tissue that gathered around his chest and back like moss on a rock. The marks from crawling over countless barbed wire fences, the shrapnel that ripped his body, surgical scars from some triage in the middle of what can be safely be called "hell on Earth". Among the worst of the scars, she saw two star-shaped wounds on his chest, almost right into his heart and right lung. She visibly grimaced at a sight.  
  
He gotten looked over and took some disinfectant and some gauze and went on his way. Rebecca hadn't seen him again after that.  
  
The lounge was well stocked with games and puzzles, and that was enough to keep Molly occupied for the moment. Rebecca went to the galley nearby to see what they had for food. She looked into the latched cabinets and searched every one, each one made her more depressed by the moment. Sinclair was one of the richest people in the world, but his tastes in food were almost that of every common man. She saw large 5 lb. cans of tuna and Spam. She noticed several creates of dehydrated cold cuts. There were fresh cans of condiments, mostly mayonnaise and steak sauce, but not much else. She stopped the search after finding the ten pound cases of oatmeal. No doubt that his taste of food left much to be desired.  
  
Molly was occupied with the puzzle in front of her, putting a piece here and trying out a piece there. In front of her, standing straight and tall like a sentry, was the white pawn.  
  
"We have to go back," Baloo fairly shouted.  
  
"Well, I'd like that too." Sinclair countered smartly. "But that hit squad that came for us earlier doesn't make me too happy with the idea."  
  
They were still in the cockpit, now arguing over what was the next course of action. Johner learned to keep out of the fight, pressing his focus on flying the ship. Kit kept to his own counsel, looking at the maps and fingering the dials of his radio. So far, nothing has come through except for the scattered, random radio traffic.  
  
"We have to explain about what has happened," Baloo argued.  
  
"Is it that or your plane?" Sinclair crossed his arms tightly.  
  
"Both," Baloo didn't waiver his gaze.  
  
"Well, I sympathize, believe me." It was now Demitri's turn to act diplomatic.  
  
"They might impound my plane!" Baloo roared.  
  
"And they might land a bullet in your fat, lard-filled skull." Demitri forcibly pressed the point of his index finger to Baloo's temple to better describe the issue at hand. It was something he usually did to some stubborn airman under his command who thought he knew better.  
  
So much for diplomacy.  
  
"They just want you; they just might leave us alone."  
  
"Listen to me, you fat-" Sinclair wanted to continue on with this argument but Johner's yelp of alarm cut him off. Johner wasn't known for panicking under anything short of a massive napalm attack.  
  
Sinclair acted almost by reflex, his body flew from where he was once standing to hovering over Johner's chair.  
  
Johner was tapping at a familiar gauge to his left, tapping it insistently. It was the fuel gauge, the one that spoke for all the four fuel tanks on Sulaco. The tanks were not full as he ordered but actually a quarter full.  
  
"It just dipped down like that," Johner started to explain but Sinclair cut him off with a raised hand. He ordered the tanks to be completely full just a few ago and his orders were followed a far as he knew. The saboteurs at work...  
  
"How much further can we go?" Sinclair asked. This wasn't a time to place blame, only to find solutions.  
  
"About another three hours. After that, splat." Johner explained.  
  
Kit was already looking over his charts, now at a faster pace. His fingers were off the radio and on his slide rule, his left hand working the ruler, the right hand writing down equations that he couldn't risk doing in his head right now. He tore off another piece of paper from the legal pad and worked on another piece.  
  
"Head to heading 280, decrease speed by thirty percent." Kit ordered. "And decrease altitude to 120 meters."  
  
Johner did so, dipping the control yoke slightly. He fingered the throttle on the control yoke as we went. His nerves calming, but slightly.  
  
"Where are we heading, Little Britches?" Baloo asked.  
  
Kit didn't listen to Baloo but to the headset, his brow creased slightly, then massively. Then, his expression was that of silent horror; His expression ashen.  
  
"What's wrong?" Baloo pressed.  
  
Kit tapped the overhead speaker control so everyone on the cockpit could hear what Kit've just heard. His expression never changed, but his gaze was now focused on Sinclair.  
  
"Attention, attention." The radio chimed. "We bring you the latest news bulletin: A private island once belonging to airplane mogul Demitri Sinclair was just under attack by unknown assailants. Several people are reported killed by the siege. Sinclair may've been one of the casualties. A experimental prototype was stolen as a getaway vehicle; military and mercenary groups are receiving orders to search and destroy this craft at all costs. A six-figure reward is offered to anyone that can provide information that can lead to this craft's destruction."  
  
The message repeated itself for several minutes, but Kit turned it off afterwards. The mood of the crew noticeably dropped. Sinclair's, mostly. Johner craned his head back just so he could share the same look with his old friend. And share a knowledgeable stare. The conspirators at work once again. They couldn't go far with the fuel they have, they can't call for help because that'll mean their deaths. And with Sinclair's reported death, that alone could destroy whatever creditability to Demitri's status.  
  
Kit was tapping the mike to his headset when he answered Baloo's earlier question: "The only place we can go at this point: Louies." 


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Dining Among The Masses  
  
It took a bit of work, but a person of Louie's ingenuity was always counted on to get something done when it mattered. But three hours was a stretch, even for Louie. Hiding a ship as massive as Sulaco, a wanted ship no less, and gathering enough fuel to fill it's tanks. And try and keep his patrons from informing others while they've landed... Running down the list of what had to be done, the crew sighed nervously. Kit and Baloo had plenty of trust of Louie's abilities, but pulling this one off was a bit of a serious stretch.  
  
Two Hours Later....  
  
"Unknown vessel, come to bearing 326 mark 35, and decrease speed to half." Louie's voice filtered through the radio's speakers. His voice now having a slight edge to it, not nervousness but just nerves. Sulaco was equipped with ECJs but Sinclair knew that lighting them up would cause more problems then not turning them on; If pilots around knew that they've been jammed, they've go for help. Doing so would cause more problems then solutions...  
  
To the south of Louie's island, there was a cave, half-sunken by the beach and water, it's mouth covered by carefully-placed foliage and camo-cloths. Louie did an excellent job at keeping the cave well hidden; Sinclair and Johner, both trained soldiers in the past, whistled in admiration at such a job. It blended so perfectly, even their trained eyes couldn't tell for sure.  
  
The netting were pulled away, revealing the gaping maw of the cave's mouth. Johner took to the controls and gently slid the ship into the dark maw. Earlier, Kit gave Louie a series of requests, hidden within their messages, mostly considered trivial by the casual eavesdropper. Then Kit gave the Sulaco's dimensions within a set of food orders. Louie understood them perfectly and acknowledge that he and his people will be ready by the time they arrived. Added that Louie had just restarted "Happy Hour" with the remaining pilots, complete with drinks, loud music, and even louder dancing, no one would be able to hear the loud rumblings of Sulaco's engines.  
  
Everyone on board got to work almost immediately: Rebecca was dressing herself and Molly into a set of coveralls. Molly's was much too large for her but Rebecca was an adept with temporary sewing and stitched the longer sleeves to fit her small frame. Rebecca's hair was hidden under a large cap, her face smudged with grease. Molly's was the same, her hair ribbons long gone and now in her back pockets.  
  
Everyone wore the same type of coveralls: Olive-drab in color, cotton fabric. The patches have been removed at some point, leaving behind dark shapes where they had protected the cotton material beneath from fading. All basically had the same shaped patches in the same areas. Baloo and Kit grimaced slightly, smelling the stench of mothballs and cedar chips embedded deep in the fibers. Johner fixed that problem by dumping the contents of a liqueur bottle over his front. Then he took a small sip from the neck of the bottle before dumping the rest over his back and hair.  
  
Everyone joined in, dumping certain contents on their uniforms. Wildcat and Kit poured grease over their fronts, their faces smeared. Baloo had a nice odor from having a cup of sugar water spilled on him. Rebecca watched with a small smirk at seeing grown men dumping liquids on themselves; dispite recent events, it was nothing if not comical to her.  
  
Sinclair stepped forward with a small spray bottle in his hand. Rebecca could see a yellowish liquid sloshing with. Sinclair gave her only that moment to look, when he pressed the trigger on her, sending her spiraling back in reaction. She tumbled over a small toolbox, sending her on the floor flat on her bum. Molly laughed and soon everyone joined in.  
  
Molly stepped forward to help her mother up. "You smell like trees, Mommy." She complimented with childlike sincerity. Her hand grasped Rebecca's own and they both pulled themselves up.  
  
Sniffing the cotton fabric, she smelled like pine cleaner, the same stuff she used often in her kitchen and bathroom. Sinclair sprayed her with pine cleaner! She looked up, staring daggers at him. Sinclair's reaction was that of confusion. Gently, he placed the spray bottle on the table nearby and walked off.  
  
Johner and Baloo were still laughing; both bears as large as cargo crates, laughing their barrel laughs at her expense. Kit stopped when he managed, now intent on the checklist in his hands for tasks to do here.  
  
"Everyone ready?" Demitri's once cleaned looks were completely gone. He looked almost the same as he did when Rebecca and her crew set foot on his island only the day before. His long hair, once combed back and neat, was now messy and tangled, matted. A large brim baseball cap covered his head and most of his face when he tilted it right. So far, he managed to look like every type of maintenance worker and mechanic from one end of Cape Susette to the next.  
  
"I guess we are," Johner answered, surveying everyone around him.  
  
"Anyone who wants to stay can do so," Sinclair commented, almost apologetically. "Johner and myself could handle the major stuff. And the Cunninghams does have that unreserved option of staying here where it's safer."  
  
"We have to get some extra food supplies." Rebecca reported hurriedly. Oatmeal? She thought tiredly. He expects us to live off of oatmeal and Spam??!!  
  
At this, Sinclair looked almost confused, then realization hit him. He let out a wide grin in acknowledgment and nodded in approval. Heck, he thought. They weren't military, they didn't know what it was like to live off that stuff for months on end...  
  
And I like Spam, thank you!  
  
"Let's go," Was all he had to say.  
  
The cave was larger then Kit suspected. It fit the Sulaco perfectly, and gave it enough space to land on the rock and sand surface. They left via the rear cargo ramp. Kit looked around and saw a small fuel dump in one corner, far away from any craft. Wise decision.  
  
He saw the bamboo walkways where Louie's men were now walking with. Only a few feet over the ground, they were still valuable if the ground became flooded and the risk of quicksand became great. They even made a good mock workbench if needed.  
  
Some of Louie's mechanics were already on the scene, letting the Sulaco's image sink into their brains. They worked their trade once Demitri explained where the fuel intakes were located. Most of the stuff was standard and he knew that they'd find out eventually.  
  
Louie's was a pilot's hub for parties and rest. Also a good place of commerce; traders and merchants frequently sold their trade here, usually during a good round of drinks. Louie himself never complained about it, except when the subject of illegal goods and guns come into the conversation. Louie was laid-back on the trading, but illegal goods were out as far as her was concerned. Demitri knew of the trading, heck; every good pilot knew about it. And would back the guy up if some arms dealer tried to press the issue further.  
  
Demitri started to get to work, handing each member of his "Crew" a huge wad of bills. Mostly dog-eared fifties and twenties. The older the bills looked, the less questions would arose. He gave Molly's share to her mother for safekeeping. They gathered around in a gaggle, knowing that once they're at the bar, they'd separate and not make any type of contact with each other. Kit could see Demitri practicing a tired slump, the mark of a mechanic with a sore back. Johner was working on a drunken pose, complete with a slightly noticeable limp and a half-full beer bottle; the contents was only sea water, but as long as no one tastes it, they were fine. Kit tapped Baloo on his hand and pointed to the two. Baloo looked for a moment, not comprehending, then brightened at Kit's idea. He leaned down with a hunch, a shoulder tilted at an angle. Another result from not stretching in your seat after that "Long Haul".  
  
The stairwell they climbed was another made of bamboo, the rails polished and wood-stained. They went to groups of three. Rebecca, Wildcat and Molly going first, then Baloo and Demitri, then Johner and Kit.  
  
All agreed not to pay any attention to each other once they were out in the open. Even if trouble were to arrive. Rebecca noticeably blanched at such a thought. The image from the hanger was still deep into her mind lately.  
  
Rebecca though for a moment about their options, mainly the options where Demitri was not a variable. She could gather Molly and Wildcat and run away somewhere. But that meant leaving Baloo and Kit behind. And if she did, where could they go? Technically, they were wanted people. With bounties on each of their heads. So far, Demitri was playing fair, but only on his turf. And starting a mutiny against him would do far more damage then she'd hope to repair. If anything, to get out of this, she might have to kill Sinclair; but that alone made her shudder at such a thought. She was never a killer at heart; prayed that she'd never be one. And he'd made no hostile intentions towards Molly or her.  
  
"Mommy," Molly whispered to her. "Is everything all right?" She tugged at her mother's slacks.  
  
Rebecca managed her best smile, hoping that her daughter wouldn't see through it.  
  
"Everything is fine, honey." She replied in a slightly confident voice. "We're just going to get some food; stay close to Mommy, all right?"  
  
Molly nodded.  
  
Louie's was busy as usual; busier since Louie had managed to distract and occupy every pilot in the area! Loud music was playing out and pilots from around the globe were dancing to the beat. Tropical drinks flowed like water and beer nuts made for artificial artillery!  
  
Demitri walked in first, Baloo close behind. Johner looked at the scene and started to smile. He bobbed his head to the music. Demitri gave a sharp look to his friend, Look out for trouble. Note everything that poses a risk. He looked around and gave him a sympathetic look that said, "Don't trash the place."  
  
Johner was well noted in several bars during the Wars for his tolerance for drink, massive bar tabs, and total destruction of private property. Most of which took place in the same bars he used to frequent! Demitri and his old gang watched one night as a drunken Johner literally slammed his fist through a door just to settle a bet. He dislocated a couple of knuckles but the money earned paid off a large tab at that bar.  
  
Johner let out a grotesque parody of a smile at his boss and friend. Johner's affection to wild parties and wilder bar brawls were feared and admired during the Wars. If he wasn't on duty right now, that reputation would return with a vengeance!  
  
Rebecca and Molly walked towards a known trader of foodstuffs and started to discuss business. Molly sat through it all, sharing a bowl of ice cream with Wildcat. Kit kept his eyes close towards Molly while still keeping up with the massive Johner. So far, so good. He thought.  
  
Demitri and Baloo sat at the bar, careful to keep their distances from each other. Baloo sat next to a grizzled pilot, obviously much older and very tired. Whether it was from age or from physical fatigue was unknown. He looked at Baloo with runny eyes.  
  
"Hey, brother," The man spoke in a slightly slurred voice. "Can you spare a vet a drink?" He tried to keep a good focus on Baloo.  
  
Baloo glanced at the old man's coverall; they were much like the ones he and Demitri are wearing right now. And the badges were torn off as well. Except for a single one denoting a familiar bomber squadron Baloo read about in school as a child.  
  
"You were a flyer?" Baloo asked.  
  
The veteran drew himself up in pride and met Baloo's eyes; Baloo thought that if the man wasn't so drunk, he'd might give out a crisp, clean salute just for the question.  
  
"Yep," He acknowledged. "Started out as side gunner for the old Broadsword bombers. Got myself a field commission and started to fly them myself. Flew 'em through it all: The Phoebus Wars, The Thembrian Boarder Skirmish, The Food Riots of '27."  
  
Baloo whistled in admiration. If this was all just a figment of a drunken man's imagination, it was pretty impressive on at that. The Food Riots of '27 was even worse then some of the battles of Phoebus. The Regime blockading foods until several providences were literally starving to death. Usland responding by sending an invasion force of nine squadrons of bombers plus escorts. The battles were fierce and the bombers finally dropped their cargo: crates and crates of foodstuffs and Spam. The returning forces wasn't enough for one squadron. But the job was done and the locals overthrew the Regime out of sheer gratitude.  
  
It was only a shame that the victory was short-lived. Three months and the Regime was once again in power.  
  
"What happened?" Baloo asked.  
  
The man noticeably deflated, making Baloo regret ever asking the question. "Didn't finish collage, no advanced education." The man sighed, breathing a fog of scotch into Baloo's face. "Got booted out along with my commission with the new 'reduction in forces' polices." He shrugged, feeling ashamed and humiliated. "I flew with the 37th for most of my career, never regretted it either. Never complain, never whined. We took part in the most horrible scrapes ever. That should've counted for something. Now the old base is used for scrap."  
  
Baloo nodded sympathetically.  
  
The vet leaned closer. "Hey, you don't know if anyone's taking on crew, do you?"  
  
Baloo kept his expression neutral. "Sorry, don't at the moment." At the moment, He thought. Maybe Louie could pull in a hand.  
  
The vet turned away. "If I'm bothering you or anything-"  
  
"Nope." Baloo gave a comforting smile. "Just thinking about some things going on right now."  
  
The vet nodded. "Don't mean to rattle on. It just that you give your life for something. One cause that seemed right to you, in you heart. You give everything for victory, then we get it. Then what happens? We get thrown out, a small pension and little else. If Lady Anya was still around, she'd rush into those generals offices and start her own holy fire right in front of them."  
  
Demitri snorted silently, remembering those rare arguments they'd used to have. Between fighting an entire legion of hostile troops with a half- loaded sidearm or fighting with his spouse, he'd be forced to sit down and consider his option...very carefully.  
  
"Holy fire" was a adequate term to describe her temper.  
  
"You'll be fine," Baloo reassured to the vet. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the wad of money Demitri gave out, peeled off a fifty and handed it to the vet. It was a good enough amount, probably far more then this vet's been receiving, but it was enough to get him a good room, a shower and a good round of meals. He pressed the bill into the startled man's hands.  
  
The vet tried to refuse it. "No, take it." Baloo reassured. "From one pilot to another. Lady Anya may not be here but we're pilots and we do try to take care of our own."  
  
The vet frowned and reluctantly accepted the donation. "Thank you, buddy." He said, looking at Baloo for a long moment. "Maybe I can do you a favor."  
  
"Maybe," Baloo answered and said his good-byes to the vet as he walked away.  
  
Louie was nearby and Baloo was lucky to catch him. Louie was still in his party mode, but his eyes had a slightly nervous glint in them. The tray he was carrying was full of drink cups, both empty and full. They both knew what going to happen to them if they were caught in this. But Louie still did it, dispite the risks. They exchanged greetings and Baloo asked about the vet at the bar. Louie nodded and said that he'll do what he can.  
  
He mussed silently, The RIF, Reduction In Forces, took more vets then any conflict to date. And the only saving grace that the Settlements problem might have was that most of these vets might be called back in action. Might. In a way, he felt a small sorrow at what've just happened. He'd just helped one vet while hundreds are out there. The sheer scale of it all...  
  
His thought were interrupted by a loud crash. He turned to see the source of the commotion. He saw a blond bulldog-ish looking pilot in a dark flight suit, his chair knocked over behind him. He grabbed the veteran Baloo spoke too only moments earlier by the collar. Baloo didn't know what the deal was with this, but he did see the younger man give the vet a deliberate backslap across the face. The vet tumbled backwards and spilled over on the floor. The younger man stepped forward, kicking the vet across the ribs with his steel-toed boots, and kicked him in the stomach as he tried to get up.  
  
The music suddenly stopped and the crowd did as well. The dancing ended just as quick. Baloo rushed over to the scene, now realizing the implications he might be getting into. Demitri was nowhere in sight and everyone was under orders not to interfere with each other, even when in trouble. The dark man kicked the vet in the kidneys as Baloo approached. He grabbed the dark man and spun him around, slamming him against the bar.  
  
"Enough," Baloo was starting to say. But the dark man rebounded almost as quick, his flight jacket whipped open. Baloo caught a brief glimpse of the man's name on the suit. But he also saw a brief glimpse of something shiny and silvery and acted totally on reflex.  
  
The dark man pulled something from a hidden holster and flipped a switch. A ten-inch blade flicked open like magic.  
  
"Switchblade!" Someone yelled out to his right.  
  
Baloo's guts tensed immensely. He had little experience with knives, especially knife fights. And this man looked like an adept to the knife in his hands. He looked at the switchblade, and winced at the serrated-saw blade and the notches on the handle. He didn't waste a single moment questioning the purpose of the notches.  
  
The man smiled, bringing chills to Baloo's spine. "Bad move, my friend." The man replied. "I don't like being touched."  
  
A grapefruit separated the two for a brief moment. The man expertly slashed his knife at it, cutting it in two. His attention distracted for that single second. But it was enough for Baloo's advantage. He grabbed the man's wrist and twisted it enough to almost break it. The man flipped over but didn't let go of the knife. He hit the floor and jerked his legs forward, slamming his foot into the back of Baloo's knees. They both fell and Baloo lost his grip for a moment. The man got up and gripped the knife with greater determination. He was on top of Baloo, trying to plunge the knife into his chest. Baloo resisted, keeping his hands and his strength on his hands, which were holding the man's knife-welding hands.  
  
"I don't like being touched," The man's voice was without emotion, without remorse. His cold blue eyes stared him down. "And I don't like people meddling into my private affairs." He drew the knife closer to Baloo's throat. "And now it's going to cost you."  
  
He still had that feral smile, like that of a wolf who just caught his prey.  
  
Suddenly, almost expertly and refined as a ballet dance, a larger knife was slipped into Baloo's view and placed against the man's Adam apple. The flat of the blade pressed against his neck. He saw the fingers of a very powerful hand grip the man's golden hair and the face of a very familiar fox hidden under the shadow of a wide brim baseball cap.  
  
"Sorry, we can't have that here." Demitri Sinclair's voice was almost apologetic.  
  
Johner saw the whole scene unfold in front of him. Kit was nearby. Rebecca, Molly and Wildcat were further away, still arguing over the prices of fresh bread and fruits. Baloo was good enough as a pilot but his fighting style reeked in Johner's professional opinion. Sloppy and unrefined. But his pushed that away. Baloo was a civilian, not a solider like himself and Sinclair.  
  
But it still reeked.  
  
"Are we going to do something?" Kit asked insistently for the fifth time. Johner kept his prose and replied again that their orders still stand: We don't get involved with the other group, no matter what.  
  
"Is that the official word?" Kit's voice was dripping with sarcasm, something that would've landed him the brig for a two-week stay if he was under Johner's command.  
  
"Like you'd listen," He shot back, remembering Kit's distraction with the grapefruit.  
  
"So what do we do, besides wait here on our duffs?" Kit was inching to help.  
  
Johner's voice was almost without emotion as he answered. "We wait."  
  
"Call off your dog," The man's expression changed from that of amusement to barely-controlled rage.  
  
"Be nice," Demitri admonished him like he would a small child. He press the edge of his knife deeper against the man's neck, and pulled it upwards. He felt the blade cutting into the skin, ripping into it. A small river of blood flowed down the cutting blade. Several droplets fell on Baloo's coveralls. Demitri pulled back the man's jacket, reading the nametag carefully. "I've killed a lot of people in the past, Mr. Sethler. And truthfully, I'm a little rusty right now. But I'm sure that you can put me back to speed." He made a sideward glance around him. "And if you don't call off your dogs, I'm going to spill out your throat all over this nice, clean floor. And believe me, I hate to stain such a nice floor."  
  
There was a edge in his voice as he spoke. Calm, collective, even rational but the three could tell that Demitri was not bluffing. He would slice this man's throat as easily as he would slice a sandwich into halves. And with equal detachment.  
  
Sethler's face started to redden some more. His face now becoming red as a beet. No doubt that he wanted to carve a piece out of Demitri as well as Baloo.  
  
A gunshot rang out and everyone almost panicked. Someone screamed, several people ran out the door. Nearby, a figure wearing an identical flight suit as Sethler stepped back slowly. A large, smoking bullet hole almost touched her foot.  
  
"What was that??!!" Kit nearly shouted.  
  
"Beat's me," Johner replied at first. Then a small smile grew on his face. He called them. He wanted to laugh. After all these years, he finally called for them to help him. Yep, this was getting interesting.  
  
Kit looked at him with an expression that said, "What drugs are you on??!!"  
  
"I got your people surrounded in an elevated position." Demitri replied, almost hurriedly. "Now, safety that weapon, Goldilocks. Or I will." There was an edge to his voice; not nervousness, but nerves.  
  
Sethler hands tensed then he complied. His fingers pressed a stud on the handle of his knife and the blade retracted. Demitri slowly backed away, his knife inching away from Sethler's bleeding throat. Slowly, Demitri eased the knife back, taking a brief look at the wound he had just inflicted. It was minor cut, something that would heal in a few weeks without a scar. But the point was made and that was enough for Demitri.  
  
He was still within kicking distance of Sethler's feet. Baloo almost realized it a little to late, until Sethler whipcracked into action. His leg almost a blur. Demitri jumped it easily like a hurdle and brought his blade down on Sethler's head almost the same time he jumped the feet.  
  
For a moment, Baloo thought he'd now see Sethler's blood and brains splattered all over the floor, his body laying dead with Demitri's knife embedded in his skull. But he never thought he'd hear a loud Clang and Sethler nursing his wounded head. Or Demitri's knife with no more blood then what it had when it touched Sethler's throat.  
  
He hit him with the flat of his blade, Baloo thought in astonishment.  
  
"Next time, I won't be so merciful." Demitri replied in a confident voice.  
  
Sethler looked at him with burning hate. The side of his face was even redder from the blade's impact, a red triangle that made him look even uglier. "You're going to regret ever meeting me." He snarled.  
  
"Too late," Baloo was concerned; that was not under debate. But Demitri looked like he was actually getting bored with this.  
  
Sethler's face turned from Baloo's to Demitri and back to Baloo. "We'll met again. Count on it." And with that, he collected himself and left the bar, his comrades following close behind. Everyone gave a wide berth to this particular lot.  
  
Demitri helped Baloo up and started to look him over. So far, so good.  
  
"Let's make that quiet exit before we're recognized." Demitri intoned softly.  
  
Baloo nodded and they left the bar and back into the hanger.  
  
"Who was that with the gun?" Baloo asked.  
  
Demitri smiled. "Some friends," was his only answer.  
  
The hanger was still there as was everyone else. But there was more:  
  
Baloo entered it and almost cried out in joy at what he saw. The Sea Duck was there! Somehow, the Duck was flown here and made it! His face lightened so much that he almost forgot that there was another crew flying it and now off-loading cargo from it to the Sulaco.  
  
The Duck was now being pulled into the read launch bay. The only bay on Sulaco that could hold here without a problem. He saw the simple wench working her into position. Wildcat moving it with a mother's touch.  
  
Kit and Molly stood nearby. Johner was talking to some of the newcomers, laughing and joking with every word. Baloo looked at the crew and saw the equipment they carried. Tool and equipment belts hung from their hips and shoulders like bandoleers. Some carried side-arms, there holsters hidden for the sake of the children around them.  
  
"Still making that shot, Sara?" Johner joked to a petite feline brunette in front of him. She smiled politely and responded with a good-hearted slap in the face. That made him smile harder for some reason.  
  
Demitri stepped in view, making everyone stand at attention. Whatever they had in their hands, be it a tool, a burger, or an expensive piece of machinery, was now dropped in the water as they stood at attention.  
  
"Don't do that," Demitri moaned.  
  
Molly stood nearby with Kit, her attention was on the scene in front of her. Kit worried that all this would do her some harm. He tried to pry her attention to something less destructive but failed. Molly was anything if not persistent. In a way, she could be even more determined then her mother, a thought that had never set Kit's mind at ease.  
  
"We take off at night fall," Demitri reported. "That's a couple of hours away. Until then, get aquatinted with our transportation. Not the plane you took, of course. But the pilot beside me," He looked pointedly at Baloo. "Is thankful that you've retrieved his plane."  
  
Baloo couldn't disagree.  
  
"Now get some chow, and we'll speak later."  
  
The crew dispersed almost as quickly. There were five in all, including Johner. Some looked almost non-threatening. But that would never get past Kit; he had a second sight about who was a danger and who wasn't. And from his expression, they're all dangerous.  
  
Sulaco now felt alive and no longer a ghost ship. Molly continued on with her puzzles inside, eating the sandwich her mother prepared for her. It was fresh bread with some cold-cuts but she did what she could to make it look appetizing. The galley was now stocked with fresh foods and smelled like the produce section of a supermarket. She hoped that this situation would be resolved and they could go home but so far, Demitri kept to his word that no harm would come them all. It was ironic that she had to depend on a word from the same man who is keeping her and her daughter a prisoner. But under the circumstances, her other options weren't so good either.  
  
She bumped into a large woman who was hauling a box of tools.  
  
"Sorry, ma'am." The woman replied softly to Rebecca. "I have to check the wiring real quick before we go." Rebecca nodded her head and backed away as the woman reached up and pulled down am overhead access panel. She set it gently on the counter, careful that the noise wouldn't disturb the child in the next room . She moved with a careful air, quiet and almost nervous. A bit different from other people her size. Rebecca looked at her large golden mane and large paws, almost large then Baloo's and saw that they've moved with a slight precision and attentiveness. She moved up the counter and shimmied her way up the maintenance tube. Her left leg was caught on a burr of metal on the hatch's cover. She jerked it to the right and her left leg fell down and hit the floor.  
  
For a moment, Rebecca was going to let out a startling scream, seeing a leg fall down and hit the floor in front of her; that was the appropriate response. But only the dull, wooden sound of the leg slamming down saved her.  
  
A wooden leg stood idly by, complete with a work boot and the appropriate attachment fittings on it typical for an artificial limb. She looked up at the woman, who gave a sorrowful expression.  
  
"I'm sorry," She apologized. "Can you hand that back to me."  
  
Rebecca did with numbed fingers. The woman took it and made to disappear inside the Sulaco's workings.  
  
"Wait," Rebecca called out. "I didn't get your name. I'm Rebecca."  
  
The woman looked at her for a moment, then told her name after a long sigh. "It's Sawyer." And she then disappeared.  
  
Rebecca didn't see her until the next morning.  
  
The others were more forthcoming. There was Rollins, who worked the radio and radar. There was Sara, who was the Cargomaster. And there was Winston, who worked as a Medic. Then there was the elusive Sawyer, who was a chief engineer. All worked at their stations almost like it was molded just for them. Some tapped controls or worked some dials, some even tampered with the switches, making it work better for them. Kit manned the navigator's station as usual. Demitri didn't argue the point, and neither did Kit. They needed a navigator and Kit was the only one available.  
  
The matter of convenience didn't escape Kit's nor Rebecca's mind at that point.  
  
Wildcat still helped out; moving stuff here and there with Molly tagging along. So far, she was almost enjoyed the Sulaco. Hitting decks with her shoes to see which deck was the loudest, dangling from the overhead pipes (Which brought a concerned admonishment from her mother), and the occasional calling out into the ventilation ducts: "Hark, who goes there?"  
  
Wildcat didn't complain about Molly's highjinks. He pretty much let her loose, getting involved only when she might be at risk, like from hanging on pipes.  
  
Rollins was a ferret-like individual who had an constant, arrogant look on his face. He had the face of someone who would always have the upper hand on something. Kit naturally disliked him.  
  
Sara was petite but still formidable; She handled the placement of cargo like a expert. Kit watched in amazement as she calculated the weight placement of each cargo crate to stabilize the ship's center of gravity. She even worked out where and how to place them. She wore a small baseball cap on her head backwards like Kit. Her hair was now hidden underneath.  
  
And then there's Winston. Winston was different from most doctors. While doctors were trained to be outgoing and warm, Winston was slightly cold and aloof. His canine instincts were superb in finding out a person's ills but lousy when dealing with social skills. Quiet, rarely speaking unless it was important, he was not considered to be the life of the party. He carried a large-caliber pistol with his medical kit, he insists on it.  
  
They checked the wiring and the equipment for most of that time. Sabotage was a business not to be taken lightly. They started to check every piece of wiring they could find; Demitri took the lead with Wildcat helping out. Wildcat ruffled through the official blueprints while Demitri dug his hands inside his jotted notes he kept on the project. Kit saw several dinner napkins, one cloth covered in marker; a couple of paper bags used to describe the wiring; and a wrinkled mass of newspaper that was littered with more thick, black marker. Demitri was excellent at inventing things; it was his filing "system" that brought nightmares to others.  
  
"Mr. Sinclair," Wildcat called out to him. "I can't find that main power trunk anywhere."  
  
"Hold on," Demitri sifted through his stack and pulled out a wrinkled cigarette carton. "It's to your... left, I think." Then Demitri turned the carton over, realizing he had the diagram upside-down. "Yeah, it's there; right above the emergency water piping."  
  
"Found it," Wildcat confirmed.  
  
The cockpit was just as busy. Kit worked out his navigational genius to the maps in front of him. A slide rule and a clean legal pad was his friend at this moment. Johner was checking the instruments to make sure that nothing would go wrong. Baloo was getting orientated with the flight controls, reading the hand-written manual in his hands and testing out the controls while he could. Molly and Rebecca were busy themselves; Rebecca was teaching Molly about the intricacies of using the radio and she was trying to master the radar controls. The power ratings on the radar array was almost double that of most military planes and vessels. Add that to her over-powered engines and her awesome display of weaponry, Sulaco was not to be taken lightly.  
  
Her mind tracked back to Anya's recorded words back on Demitri's island. Her pleas for help and her husband's determination to get her back. She saw photos of Anya; everyone in Cape Susette did. She could look elegant in either off-the-rack designer clothing to that of simple peasants. Some admired her, many loved her, especially the pilots. Other people would press their point further when they were justified in the end. She knew that part well; Baloo would've written it in the skies if he could! But Kit's fears were almost on the mark. And sometimes, that was scary enough...  
  
Everyone kept to their own council, talking only to exchange a vital tidbit of information or a small cutting comment. Kit knew this sort of comadre before while he was still with the Pirates. But the people he was now with were true professionals in every sense. A small slap here and a pointed elbow in the ribs there; Dobermans at play with small roughhousing. Even Winston was seen throwing a box of bandages at Johner.  
  
Dinner-time was agreed to be at six. Demitri asked Rebecca earlier and she agreed. Molly usually ate at six; he inquired if they wanted to be separated from the rest of the group. She asked if there was to be profanities at the table. He promised that were would be none.  
  
A simple question turning into a session of Twenty-Questions. Both had head-aches but at least they tried to smile about it.  
  
Demitri offered his services in the galley. Rebecca reluctantly agreed; so far, he meant well. He certainly tried to be polite, almost nervous, around her. He certainly trusted her enough to give her some options; options where she could've picked up Molly and left quickly. Or was he truly a cunning person at heart?  
  
They exchanged small talk while preparing dinner. There was a brief rattle in the overhead pipes but Demitri commented about the others washing up. She looked at him for a moment as he chopped vegetables, dressed in a clean apron. If she saw him now for the first time, she'd mistake him for just about every loving husband or newlywed she'd seen in the past. Him chopping vegetables, sometimes whistling a forgotten tune, his wedding band glinting with the harsh lights mounted under the cabinets.  
  
But then there was the person she already knew about; the person who acted at the firefight on his own island. The man who held a knife to another man's neck without pity nor remorse of his actions. She saw that cold steel in his eyes. That total dislocation from morality or ethics or mercy. And yet, he gave her a couple of options to escape him. Even before the hanger incident, he said that he no longer needed her and promised an endorsement.  
  
Or was that the whole issue? Was he that cold; to murder his own people to get back his beloved? What if she had to go against him? What would he do? Accept it and let her be on her way? Or force her co-operation with the life of her daughter?  
  
Who are you? She wondered.  
  
He looked at her from where he was standing, his chopping resuming like he was still watching. She watched as he chopped his salad expertly, without a wasted movement nor any of his visual attention. He stared at her and she returned the stare. Their eyes locked for a moment. An uneasy silence between them.  
  
Finally, Demitri spoke: "Stew's boiling," He commented and returned to his vegetable, whistling that same unnamable tune.  
  
Dinner in the mess hall was a good experience in Johner's past. Smelling that great food and then tasting it. Then making some cutting remark on the quality and the cook who made it. The usual banter of overtly dramatic missions, boasts and deeds from his fellow soldiers. In a way, he felt sad that he could never go back to those things again.  
  
He took a chair and looked at the sitting around him. Typical military- issue food trays with bowls of stew in the middle. There was platters of cornbread and salad and a few others as well.  
  
The others gathered as well; except for Sawyer. They were all hungry and an invitation for food was not to be denied without a fight! It was a long night and they haven't even departed yet!  
  
"Chow down, grunts." Johner called out. There was a roar of laughter from some.  
  
Demitri started to pass the food platters from the galley, which impressed Rebecca in some strange way. Of all the rich and successful men she knew, none of them could handle a frying pan, much less cook and serve food like a chef! She watched from her corner as she started to clean up the galley as Demitri balanced a couple of platters on each arm to the table, knelt down and slid them on the surface. No doubt, she was impressed.  
  
He returned, "Sit down, eat something." He replied to her. "I'll finish up here. After all this, I'd think you'd want something to eat."  
  
Rebecca was hungry and found it hard-pressed not to argue with him. She left the galley and sat at the empty seat next to her daughter.  
  
Molly was so far all right with the transition. She was far more adaptive then most children her age; whether that was good or bad, Rebecca never could decide on. Kit was on the other end, cutting up Molly's steak with his knife.  
  
"Look at them," Kit whispered to Molly. "It's like he had a long-lost brother."  
  
Molly's head perked up. "Who?" She whispered.  
  
Kit pointed his eyes towards Johner and Baloo. Molly watched them for a few minutes then giggled to herself. She tugged on Rebecca's sleeve and pointed them out. Now they both started giggling!  
  
Kit felt like laughing and sighing at the same time. It was so true, it had to be funny:  
  
Johner and Baloo were eating like....well, like they usually did when they were hungry. Demitri and Kit could've compared "war stories" based on failed diets, horrific calorie counts, and that thing known to some as "Dieter's Armageddon" which was seeing them fight their way into a chained pantry.  
  
Johner reached for a piece of corn bread, which was immediately snatched by Baloo's hand. Baloo reached for a salt shaker, which was immediately seized by Johner. Baloo made a attempt to capture a chicken leg, which was thwarted by Johner.....  
  
It was like a Chess Championship Tournament combined with a buffet! Both players trying to gain new ground, but unwilling to give up their own (Rebecca had a comment about that at Baloo's expense).  
  
"What's this stuff supposed to be?" Rollins replied disgustingly about his food.  
  
"Eggs," Winston replied simply.  
  
"I know it's eggs, collage-boy." Rollins pointed to the flat yellow square on his plate. "I'm talking about this flat, greasy cube on my plate."  
  
Winston picked his head up for a better look. Sara did also. Sara was the closest to Rollins so she poked at the yellow substance with the tip of her fork. Her tongue was rolling around the insides of her cheeks at she investigated.  
  
"It's cornbread....I think." Sara hesitantly concluded.  
  
"You sure?" Rollins replied. "Because I'd like to know what I'm eating."  
  
"It's food," Johner spoke through a mouthful of food. "That's a good enough for me."  
  
"Johner, you'll eat anything that can be digested easily." Rollins shot back.  
  
Johner didn't reply but struggled with his free hand with a bowl of mashed potatoes that was being held by Baloo.  
  
"Mommy," Molly whispered. "They're hungry."  
  
"I know, darling." Rebecca replied and started to eat her meal.  
  
"So what can we expect in the Settlements?" Sara asked in her no- nonsense voice.  
  
Demitri called out throughout the galley. "Lots of political problems, a huge blockade, possible bombing of civilian targets-"  
  
"Huge sandy beaches," Rollins interrupted with a gleeful tone. "Fruit cocktails by the barrels, parties and celebrations from Heaven and beautiful women to match."  
  
Sara had a disappointed look on her face. "Gee, that leaves me out."  
  
Winston's head perked up as he leered at her. "Say's who?"  
  
Sara threw her sugar packet at the grinning medic.  
  
Rebecca ate her food in silence. Kit and Molly soon followed, with Molly having a slightly sullen tone to her face. They were all exhausted, and emotionally drained by today's actions. But if they were to work well with these....people, they had to reach a common ground. Somewhere.  
  
"How did you find us?" Rebecca asked politely, hoping to break the ice.  
  
"We figured that there was no other place you could go," Sara replied. "Your flight route was through several mountains, which basically made radar tracking impossible. Your were tracked for several minutes heading for the Typhon Sector, then made a massive course correction elsewhere, which lead to another set of radar-evasive terrain. That lead to a certain direction where Louie's was located. So we thought that there was trouble and you had no other place to go. And we did hear that the folks of Hire for Hire was going to get involved but where heading home due to a change of heart."  
  
"Yes," Rebecca was getting this so far. So did Kit.  
  
"But." Sara pointed up with her fork. "If you did leave for Cape Susette, then why was your plane still on the island? What happened to the crew? And due to the recent news that they couldn't find Demitri's body... well, too many questions that made us unsettled. And the course change did lead to Louies; not directly, but it was good enough. So we got there first, took some positions and waited....and there you were."  
  
It made some sense to Rebecca, but she turned her head a bit to catch Kit's reactions to the explanation. It was usually neutral, but she could tell that he was reluctantly accepting it. And that was close enough for her.  
  
"And there was that deal with the radar," Sara continued.  
  
"Radar?" Kit asked.  
  
"You kept well below the radar network to be detected; but that meant that you also couldn't see around you too well. So you got up around 700 feet and went active for a few seconds, then dipped down below the network and did it again 20 minutes later."  
  
"Yes, we did." Kit was impressed. Very few pilots could notice such a trick. It was a common one used by smugglers and pirates alike, ones who didn't want to be seen or have people know where they were going. His mind flashed to Demitri's office, at the huge map where smuggling routes were clearly and neatly detailed. It made Kit wonder about how much Demitri knew about certain things and where he learned them.  
  
"Some military groups use that trick for deep-insertion into enemy territory." Sara finished and continued on with her meal. She stabbed at a wad of eggs in front of her.  
  
"What kind of groups?" Kit asked, not wanted the question to go unanswered. He stared at Sara, at the small scars around her arms and hands. The kind of scars caused by infected wounds and grabbing at shrapnel cords and barbed wires.  
  
She returned the stare. Not caring that there was now an uneasy silence in the room. Winston and Rollins looked around, subtly worried. Johner and Baloo paused eating, a turkey leg stopped just in front of Johner's lips. Baloo had a piece of french bread in his hands.  
  
"The ones that not too many people know about." Sara concluded and looked away to her food.  
  
Kit knew what that meant, and so did Sara. And they both silently agreed to end that discussion fast!  
  
Talk afterward was subtle but friendly. Sara and Rebecca talked for a few minutes, speaking about backgrounds and family and all that. Sara's were "long gone" from her and she seemed pretty fine about that; Rebecca sympathized; Molly was now her family as were her friends. If not in blood then in souls.  
  
Winston was once a front-line doctor who won the unfortunate nickname of "Gash" during his first year on the front lines. His hand got cut badly with a can of Spam and it got worse, requiring medical attention.  
  
"You have not lived," Johner put in. "Until you see a grown person in the hospital for a 'Spam-cut'." Baloo laughed, asking why would they want to live off of that stuff.  
  
"We didn't have choice," Rollins said through mouthfuls of food. "It was either eating Spam or eating the bugs around you."  
  
That pretty much summed up their options at the time. Baloo's face made that noticeable.  
  
Winston was once a promising medical student who easily became a doctor. Full of promise and energy, he was dependable and considered a example by his teachers. And because of which, he had a choosing of wherever he wanted to go for his tenure. He chose one of the field hospitals in Phoebus. Less then two years later, he found himself serving a brief stint on Suicide Watch, for running into the recovery ward with a pistol aimed at his own skull. His career was over and he no longer cared much about anything. Then Johner came by and offered a position for him. A man who was about to be booted out for trying to kill himself was about to be given another chance! Winston said no, but Johner told him he didn't have that option. The transfer was official just yesterday.  
  
Rollins was a prodigy to some, an irritant to most. While Kit's skills were on navigation and Wildcat's were on engines; Rollins was on most weaponry and explosives. An IQ that reached no lower then 180, he was arguably the smartest person in the group, but no more unstable. Growing up in the ghettos of Cape Suzette's North Zone, he learned very early the rules of Darwinism. Frail and bony, due to his drunken mother selling his food for rent and another drink, he survived off of various bugs and whatever plant life around him. His military specialty was, ironically, "Urban Combat". He fabricated his first firearm when he was only 8. Learned the process of home-made explosives when he was only 11 and blew up a children's brothel as a "test site".  
  
Most of the details he kept from the "civvies" in front of him, especially out of sake for the children. The boy looked like he could hold his own at the news; but the subject was out for the girl as far as he was concerned.  
  
Kit looked at Rollins as felt a kindred soul in some areas. He looked like a guy who rarely seen daylight with his pale complexion and sallow, sickened face. But he knew how to hold his own in a fight. If it was within arm's reach, he could find some way to fashion it into a weapon. When he wasn't working on Demitri's R&D projects, he taught at Cape Susette Military Academy's "Unconventional Warfare" Classes.  
  
"How did that court case hold?" Winston asked.  
  
"It fell through," Rollins grinned. "But I can tell you that it'll be the last time someone will come near me when I have math compass in my hands."  
  
"I'm surprised that kid lived throughout it." Winston replied.  
  
"You give a guy a D- and he goes berserk," Rollins shook his head sadly. "But at least he got away with only a small limp."  
  
Demitri walked in. His hands were clean as usual. Rebecca noticed that he had a slight compulsion with keeping his hands clean. The galley he'd just left was now much cleaner. The counters wiped and the pans scrubbed. The dishes were something he'd do later, maybe in the morning, but right now business was the priority.  
  
"I'm sorry that some of you have to get involved in all this," Demitri started out with a apology, a pretty sincere one at that in Rebecca's opinion. "But I believe that you all know the current situation with the Settlements and Usland. Right now, the blockades are still in force. No ships are entering or leaving them. Khan Industries have donated a portion of their resources to the blockade. Now so far, they've been keeping out of the light; supporting capital ships and re-arming them, but little else."  
  
"What about the news about Khan's stockpiles of weapons?" Sara asked.  
  
"Unknown at this time." Demitri's voice was changing to a business-like tone. No emotion, no tone. All business. "Khan does have an impressive stockpile of munitions and replacement parts, but he's always kept them in reserve. So the theory of him hoping that we got to war is on shaky ground."  
  
"No one wants a war," Johner said through his napkin as he wiped his mouth. "The Settlers have put on more then their fair share during the Wars. Most of the major technological advances in the last decade were done by Settlers: The polio vaccine, penicillin, the transistor-"  
  
"The Mk V ship-killer torpedo rockets," Rollins interrupted again. "The semi-automatic rifle, twelve of the nine-teen variants of plastic explosives, the colony defense networks."  
  
"They're a tricky bunch." Baloo put in. All eyes fell on him and he started to gulp air. But he continued on regardless. "They are inventive. But they would never start a fight unless they have a good enough reason."  
  
Everyone nodded their heads in agreement and they all knew the basic truths about most Settlers: They don't start fights, they finish 'em.  
  
"What about the Senate?" Rebecca asked. "They don't want a war, especially with our neighbors. Settlers have contributed much to our way of life. Much of Usland's society wouldn't exist if they didn't contribute."  
  
"What kind of opposition can we expect?" Winston asked. He looked down at his coffee cup with a dull expression.  
  
Demitri sighed for a moment. Most of what he had to say was not of public knowledge. In fact, most have been deemed very sensitive material. No civilian was supposed to know about what he was planning to tell them. Hell, he wasn't supposed to know about it. He opened his mouth to speak:  
  
"During the Phoebus Wars, the Settlers got an offer from Usland Military Command. We never contemplated a war of that magnitude at that time, nor did we expect too. The Regime, which were our enemies at that time, took over several key sectors of our territory and we had not enough manpower to deal with it. and we were already on the verge of losing.  
  
"Several times, the Settlers offered their services to replace our diminishing manpower; in return, we'd give them a certain portion of our fleet. And we did. After the war, most of that fleet 'disappeared'. Enough capital ships and their escorts for two task forces. Well enough. At least two carriers. That's not counting on what they might've built in that time."  
  
Kit mussed over that thought. The Settlers were inventive, almost ingenious, with what they had to use around them; which was to say they didn't have much to work with. They did create some great running aircraft, mostly modular to keep the same craft to be reusable, and it was easier to refit and upgrade. And they were almost dirt-cheap to build. A fighter could be fitted as a interceptor; a bomber could become a gunship. The Usland Military was thrown into fits on what to classify most of them. They had a blocky, sometimes angular appearance. Kit saw a few of them and saw their engine specs and was immediately impressed with the straightforward design. It was designed so each part can be interchangable with each other, each strut, engine part, even entire sections of fuselage can be easily changed and interchanged with each other without much trouble.  
  
Rollins whistled. Kit realized that he knew that same thing, maybe more.  
  
The Iron Vulture was huge but it was no match for the Settlement Concordia-Class Dreadnought. Most Usland cap-ships wouldn't either. The Concordia class was a variant of their decommissioned carriers bought as a freighter. Which meant that all of it's armaments and military-issued equipment was stripped out; the Settlers bought it, refurbished it, and turned it to something much better then what the she was initially designed for.  
  
"So we can disregard the basic specs?" Kit mussed, mostly to himself.  
  
"Disregard everything about the specs." Rollins put in. "I can think of at least twenty different things they can change just on their freighters alone. These people are tricky. I've seen them convert simple cargo planes into full-fledged escort bombers and gunships."  
  
"So what is the game plan?" Sara pointed out impatiently.  
  
"My contact inside Kahn Industries has assured me that we can get safe passage through a blockade." Demitri explained. "I got some codes that'll identify us as a recon plane, so hopefully we won't run into too much trouble. Now, we are in harm's way. I'm hoping to drop off Mrs. Cunningham and her child into friendly territory along the way. But my only concern is to get my wife back; anything else other then what I've just mentioned is secondary."  
  
They chewed at that notion for almost a minute. Rebecca mostly. She knew that their was no safe place for them, her or Molly, for the moment. Her mind flashed to that firefight at the hanger; knowing that whoever they were, they'd have no hesitation to kill her and her child then they would kill a prominent figure like Demitri Sinclair.  
  
"I arranged the shifts so they and us and work closer together," Demitri continued. Rebecca noticed that he was referring to her friends and herself. I got it listed so I hope it'll not be too much of a problem. Johner, you'll take the first watch with Mr. Baloo, is there and problem with that with you two?"  
  
Both shook their heads.  
  
"I'll take the morning watch with Mr. Cloudkicker," Kit noticeably blanched at that notion. If Demitri reacted to his expression, he refused to show it.  
  
"Mrs. Cunningham, what is your flight rating?" Demitri looked at her with quiet eyes.  
  
"Class-2," Rebecca responded automatically. Class-2 was a rating for most cargo planes and haulers. She just got her license re-verified only a few months ago, and failed to see the logic of going above her current flight rating.  
  
"That'll do," Demitri's eyes looked quiet, but slightly dead inside. Like his eyes were no longer anything alive but replicas forged of glass. "Sara, can you get her qualified on the dropship?"  
  
"The shuttle?" Sara asked, pondering for a second. "Yea, I can. It'll be easy."  
  
"All right," Demitri eyes scanned the whole group, seeing everything and nothing at once. Seeing nothing worth mentioning, he walked out of the room quietly. Soon, everyone else joined his discussion, leaving behind empty plates and dirty dishes.  
  
"Hate to see things go to waste," Baloo replied and made out with three loafs of french bread tucked under his arm.  
  
The "dropship" that Demitri was referring to was located in the starboard launchbay. Rebecca and Sara stared at it for a moment in shock and amazement. While most planes had a streamlined appearance for aerodynamics and possible aesthetics, this new design totally lacked it: It was blocky, hardly any angles to begin with. it had the resemblance of a metal brick that had chips in certain angles around it. Only the strange V-shaped rudder and the stubby ailerons gave away it's use as an aircraft.  
  
The dropship was locked in an overhead caddy, hovering over the closed bomb-bay doors under it. To the front, Rebecca could see a smaller craft hidden in a similar caddy. The launchbay smelled of familiar smells; mostly oil, grease and lubricants. Tools hung neatly on a peg board on one wall. The pegs were much larger then what she was used to seeing. Some of the tools were even locked down with small latches. She took a brief moment to remember that every cabinet and drawer on the Sulaco had a similar arrangement. She brought the subject up with Sara.  
  
"This ship was designed for high-speed maneuvers. Mostly with breaks and turns and such. She could outrun and outmaneuver most ships today, but that comes at a price."  
  
"What would that be?" Rebecca asked.  
  
"The ship was meant for it. But the tools, the equipment and the people aren't. She can easily pull a near 45-degree change in any direction at high speeds but that means that everything will start flying around. That's why we got so many safety harnesses on the seats. The beds, both in the bunkrooms and the medical facilities, have straps. Even the bathrooms." She giggled at the notion in a very immature manner. Rebecca smiled.  
  
The interior of the dropship looked even worse. Parts and tools laying haphazardly around the cargo bay. They entered through the left door, seeing the cots and the seats pushed up against the wall like some tray tables on civilian airlines. The walls were dank and smelled faintly of gun- oil.  
  
"The dropship was meant for a quick retrieval and dropping of cargo; like people for example. No frills; nothing. Just a engine and a cockpit and a place to drop your cargo. Little else." Sara replied in a scornful tone.  
  
"Looks it too," Rebecca commented.  
  
They spent the next hour working out the details on the cockpit controls. Rebecca was still used to the flight manual, chapter and verse. Baloo joked about that often, at her expense, but she tried not to be visible with her emotions on that issue. She never wanted to admit that Baloo was actually right!  
  
Sara was patient with her; a far cry from the persona she thought she'd seen in the mess hall. Seeing her come back with a verbal jibe and a few playful hits on the arm. They worked out the hydraulic controls and the engine controls. And that strange device that replaced the control yoke.  
  
"The Sulaco has several redundant systems. A pilot could fly it himself and manage a torpedo run on a cap-ship. He could basically fly it in a combat situation, be it a bombing run or a land strafing. It'll be hard on his senses but I hope we'll never have to find that out in real life."  
  
Rebecca agreed wholeheartedly.  
  
"But this dropship doesn't have that ability. But the one thing they do have in common are these miniature devices at the end of each handle. See it?"  
  
Rebecca saw them immediately. There was one on each end of the handle. See could see a couple of buttons in front, where her fingers would be placed.  
  
"One researcher called them 'joysticks' for some reason. You moved the 'ship around with them. The joysticks give precise controls if you want to make a high-angle break or want to hover around. The buttons toggle certain things you'll need; like the radio, the emergency beacon and such."  
  
They went through it again, almost chapter and verse. She grimaced at the thought. "Chapter and verse," all that money spent on that flight manual and it didn't do much except as an expensive paper weight. What Baloo might've done with it would've been even less humane.  
  
The cockpit was almost the same, with Baloo and Johner. They talked it through a couple loafs of French bread and bottles of soda. The air was a bit freer there, mostly with the two swapping stories between a few instructions and a practice session. Johner was impressed with Baloo's style and confidence. Kit was in the Navigator's station, plotting courses with a slightly dull expression. His hands were the only thing that was moving, his left working the slide rule from time to time, sometimes thumbing the radio dial; his right was intent on writing fuel consumption ratios and changes to fuel reserves if they had to make a course correction. But so far everything seem quiet, almost serene.  
  
So far...  
  
With the dishes completely washed and the galley scrubbed, Demitri found that he had almost nothing to occupy his time. Time on a ship tends to draw out like a blade, and was likely to cut your mind badly if your mind wasn't occupied. The galley work took his mind off of the things around him; mostly with what he'd just done with the Higher for Hire crew and Zatherias.  
  
Funny. All that time he lived with Zatherias, he never asked why he chose to stay with him until that last moment. It was amazing that deep down, it didn't hurt as much as he initially thought. A quick look over of his injuries and a brisk shower and he was almost fine with the fact. Slip into a clean uniform and he'd look like a new man; no one would've guessed that he left his friend behind to die alone.  
  
Do something, idiot. He heard the faint voice of his old drill sergeant from Basic. Doesn't do anybody any good if you start to freak out before the real fighting begins.  
  
The mess hall doubled as a rec area. And so far, no one was inside. That suited him just fine; he was never a social butterfly at heart. A few dinners, often at Anya's persistence, and maybe a gala or two but that was it. Other then that, he was almost always alone with the exception of Johner, Anya, and Winter.  
  
He worked the latches on the drawers, opening them and taking a quick look at the contents. Puzzles? Rollins' idea most likely. Coloring books? Johner did have his childish moments. A bear as large as a Grecian column coloring with crayons! He shook his head sadly, wondering if his insanity was starting to leak around the people around him.  
  
Finally he found what he wanted: a fresh tablet of unlined paper and a box of pencils. He grabbed them almost excitingly and immediately started to sharpen the first pencil to fall from the box.  
  
His first invention, which helped to save untold numbers of pilot during the Phoebus Wars, was an engine modification sketched on a dinner napkin when he was first dating Anya. Conversation was a bit spicy at first, starting with a few jokes first bantered about in the mess halls, then a bit somber. Then it became dead. He remembered seeing her in a nurse's uniform, sewed and changed around so it'll look more formal then it was originally designed for. He wore a shirt and dinner jacket that was three sizes too large for his frame. The collar hung down to his collarbones. Luckily, Winter was around to help with the sleeves but the oversized collar couldn't be helped and he went anyway, feeling like a bum and looking the part in some ways.  
  
He sketched the idea while Anya was in the washroom; he was nervous, it showed with his shaking fingers and that fidgeting right foot of his. Johner stopped by to offer some advice and left to who-knows-where. Anya was in the washroom, even more nervous then her date and trying to cram all the romantic advice that Winter and Clara were trying to drill into her.  
  
"Be yourself," Winter repeated again and again. "Be casual."  
  
Clara nodded at the advice. She was dressed in a simple waitress outfit. The hem of the skirt was almost down over her feet but she didn't complain. She'd go and serve drinks and ask the customers if everything was allright while watching Demitri and Anya try to converse. Then go to the back and tell Winter of whatever they passed off as "progress". Winter who was dressed as one of the kitchen staff, listened intently as she stirred stew and told her to continue. Johner was dressed as a valet, parking official cars and taking some pocket change from the ashtray, even a cigarette if one was to be found. Demitri would have a fit; he'd been trying to get Johner to quit for almost a month then!  
  
Johner was almost the same with his advice. "Be yourself; we're talking now. That's considered normal conversation. But personally, I don't find you that much attractive. And you'd make a lousy dance partner."  
  
Demitri didn't look up from his sketching but replied with a hidden finger gesture with his pen. Then took a sniff of the air around Johner. Johner just grinned wolfishly and left, but not after he took a basket of fresh buns from a buffet table. And a bottle of pine cleaner from the cleaning closet.  
  
Anya came back and they tried this again; she looked down at his napkin and asked what was that. He said it was something he was working on with the engines. She asked him to continue and the night went almost too fast for them to believe.  
  
That was what he was doing now: sketching. It came almost naturally for him. Sketching a tree or a wall or a person. It was something he enjoyed in his youth, seeing his niece, Clara sitting by her window as Demitri sketched her features on a piece of butcher paper.  
  
"What are you doing?" A young voice interrupted his thoughts. Demitri looked down to see Molly Cunningham standing near him. Her hair was now back in ribbons and she was back in her matching blue coveralls. Her hands were clasped behind her back, like she was about to recite a poem or report in from of her class or something.  
  
"Sketching." Demitri managed. As a soldier and businessman, he had little experience with children. As a soldier, children were frightened things with rags for clothing and a dulled expression of mute shock and horror. As a businessman, children were reported to be a liability and a nuisance, meant to be shipped off to one boarding school or another; brought into this world only to keep "the family business". Demitri never knew that for a fact; Anya and him never had children. He had little to work with other then the experiences he shared in his past with Clara. He worked as much as he could right now.  
  
He pointed to the cabinets on the far wall with his pencil. "I'm trying to sketch that wall. See it?"  
  
She did and replied with a nod. The she started to walk on tip-toe, energetic on seeing his work. "Can I see?" she asked politely.  
  
Demitri lowered his tablet to her level and she saw the sketches. Some were a bit sloppy-looking thumbnail sketches on the corners of the papers, with the general outline and texture work done around the center.  
  
Molly was impressed so far. "How do you do that?" She asked.  
  
Demitri paused for a moment; the question never came to his mind before. "It just....happens." He answered after a moments pause.  
  
"Do you draw anything else?" She asked.  
  
Demitri succeeded in repressing a sigh. He knew that the answer would be if he told the truth. If he lied, then he'd have to suffer that "guilt- thing" Johner sometimes called it. He hadn't drawn people in a long time, especially children. Not since Clara...  
  
Don't think it, His mind roared. Block it out before it's too late!  
  
The Kipple...  
  
"I used to draw...my niece." Demitri replied in a careful, controlled tone. Like he was talking to a volatile maniac instead of an innocent child. Then he replied almost before he could catch himself: "I could draw you."  
  
Molly's expression was so genuine that Demitri was immediately able to dismiss that Molly had been planning this conversation from the start. At least from the moment she saw him with a sketch pad.  
  
"Really?" She squealed in joy, "Would you really?"  
  
"I would if you'd sit over there on that chair," Demitri found himself smiling in spite of himself. "Right under that light. Just sit still a bit." She did as he asked. "Turn you head to the left....the other left, please."  
  
As he continued on, his hand worked deftly on the paper.  
  
Less then two hours later, the Sulaco left Louies and set it's course for the Settlements. As far as they knew, nothing was predictable. The future was as blank slate, almost like the pages on Demitri's sketching tablet. They were alone, flying into the night with little to go on except a compass direction and a set of course co-ordinates. But as far as they knew, no one was watching them. 


End file.
